A Hunt for Revenge
by RadicalMoon
Summary: Arriving later than expected at her father's mansion in Havana after a sudden pirate attack, young Catherine Porter unleashes an unfortunate course of events that will come to change her life. In search for her personal sense of freedom and vengeance for a loved one, she pushes through the boundaries of everything, revealing mysteries and dark secrets of the past along the way.
1. Chapter 1: The Mist

**Chapter 1:**  
_The Mist_

A massive cloud of mist travelled south towards Havana with a speed no vessel could match. It came quietly, crossing both land and sea, and did not stop for anything, leaving a trail of fog so thick and white that no man could see through it. Not even the beautiful shine of the full moon was able to penetrate the density of the strange, eerie mist. How or where it had come from was unexplainable; it had simply appeared from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Many people took hide this night. Captains ordered their quartermasters to set course away from the mist, the bars and the inns where abruptly closed and locked up—the honorable ones letting their guests stay without any payment—and even the starving animals surviving of the dirt of the cities knew better than to greedily roam the streets to scavenge something to eat. The flickering lights of thousands and thousands of oil-fueled lanterns where hurriedly quenched in every port and town, every window and yard, leaving in their absence dark, sepulchral cities that looked abandoned since long.

And yet, even though both rich and poor, man and animal knew better than to stay out, the brave ones could peek out through their windows to find a lonely brig sailing in the bright, proud colors of Britain at the very end of the horizon. She was stubbornly heading towards Havana, refusing to alter her path, and continued straight through the white darkness until it too was consumed by the white darkness. The captain on the mentioned ship was anxiously asleep—having gambled away all of his money in the last port they had visited—and the quartermaster had confidently confirmed many a times to both himself and the ship's sleeping crew that he had sailed these waters so many times he could draw the route blindfolded. He was indeed very familiar with the sea—having been a sailor almost his whole life—and he was a good man, but unfortunately not perceptive enough to distinguish the increasingly approaching silhouette of a ship to his right.

Although the quiet strides of the mist kept almost all of the sailors from rousing, it was the ceasing of all sound that awoke Catherine Porter from her undoubtably peaceful sleep. The young woman had been at sea for so long that her mind—her body was yet not accustomed to life at sea, having rejected both food and sheer balance—had adapted to the noise of the ship as the waves slammed against the wooden hull, and she almost immediately realized that something was dire wrong.

"Hello?"

Catherine slowly rose from her bed and called out again. "Excuse me, is there anybody there?"

She had been sleeping in a small and simple berth in the captain's own quarters; not because they were lovers, no, she was far too young for him, but because her father had paid the owner of the ship to carry her to Havana, where he himself was waiting.  
Her mind filled with thoughts of him. He was today a very wealthy and influential businessman but had in the past suffered horribly in both poverty and sickness, the latter claiming her mother five years ago. Grief-struck by the death of his wife and full of sorrow, Charles Porter had vanished—leaving the horrified Catherine with her aunt—only to return one year later as a rich but secretive man. People were gossiping about him, especially his only sister, telling unbelievable stories about adventures far away and rum and women, but Catherine knew better than to believe any of them. She was so happy that her father had returned from the dead and she patiently waited, as the polite and well-mannered girl she was, until Mr. Porter finally came to explain to his overjoyed but still disappointed daughter during a late evening by the hearth in their new mansion slightly outside of London.

He had told her that one of his dearest friends visited him with news of the exotic Caribbean. Apparently, there was much trouble handling the real value of the gemstones that his friend, a Mr. Collins, bought and traded there and he needed someone skilled in the area to help him. Her father had been working with jewelry his whole life, mending necklaces and estimating values of both gold and silver, and could even separate fake goods from true. Mr. Collins had a legal right signed by the East Indian Trading Company to put prices on gemstones, but he didn't have the right experience to be able to fairly judge his goods and had therefore asked her father for aid. Mr. Porter had refused in the beginning, but as his friend told him of the minimum wage of such a voyage, he decided to accept the offer and left already the day after.

Her father was waiting in Havana now. He had sent for her about a month ago, finally fulfilling his daughter's wish to live with him. Catherine shook her head clear from the memories of her past and slid out from her bed. She instinctively reached for her long coat that lay slumped over a chair and pulled it tightly around her body. It was odd; the room was usually unbearably hot even when she wore nothing but her thin shift, but she was tonight shivering with cold.

"Mr. Dyce?"

Catherine looked around for any sign of the captain's whereabouts—he slept with his crew at the lower deck but sometimes entered his workspace to fetch a map—but found nothing. He wasn't by his desk and he wasn't by his chest. Full of worry she decided to shout his name even louder when a dark shape passed by in the corner of her left eye. Catherine whipped around, thinking that someone was hiding in they shadowy forms of the many well-occupied shelves in front of her, but nobody was there. She carefully approached the blackness when something moved again, right at the edge of her sight, and she finally realized that she was seeing people outside of her cabin as they walked past the double doors. With a sigh of relief she turned back to to her berth—slightly aggravated with herself for being so easily startled by nothing at all—when suddenly, her recently restored tranquility and peace of mind was brutally shattered by a piercing gunshot. The sharp sound resonated through the ship, cutting through its wooden decks, and echoed throughout the night like the scream of a dying animal.

She ran toward the doors just as they blasted into her face.


	2. Chapter 2: Arrival

**Chapter 2:**  
_Arrival_

She woke up to the sound of firing cannons and as she opened her eyes, Catherine found herself clinging onto a square-shaped piece of wood that had probably been a crate not long ago. She let go of it in sheer surprise, sinking down into the cold water for a couple of panicked seconds before she regained her hold of the floating material and crawled onto it. The salty water stung in her eyes and combined with the thick mist, it was a mere miracle that she was able to see the humongous man-of-war sailing towards her. She only barely evaded the heavy ship as it smoothly slid past her and as she moved, she heard a surprised voice from above.

"There's a survivor, captain! Look! Is it a woman?"

Another voice replied sternly, "Don't be foolish, Simon. There's no reason a woman would have been left on the ship. She's either dead or imaginary. Maybe you should have some rest."

Catherine gazed up. She saw the warm light of a lantern from the gunwale reflecting on a worried face. Their eyes met and the red-coated soldier jumped in fright as he called for his captain again. "Not at all, she's definitely alive! Sir, we have to cease the hunt!"

There was a loud groaning of annoyance but it was quickly followed up by a couple of quick calls and orders. She heard something massive being thrown into the sea and guessed that it was the anchor. The man-of-war slowly came to a stop and somebody threw a thick rope overboard. It landed right next to her, but Catherine could not grip it. She knew not how to swim and her last wish was to drop the broken piece of crate and the odd sensation of safety she felt with it.

Same man that had spotted her called down again. Simon, she knew. "Grab the rope, miss!" he shouted. "We'll pull you right up!"

Catherine shook her head even though she knew he could impossibly see her movement. Her whole body was shaking with cold as a merciless wind whipped against her body. The heavy fog dissipated quickly with the gust and looking around she almost wished that it had remained. She saw what horrible fate had come to Mr. Dyce and his ship and crew. Blood stained the water, clearly noticeable as completely black, thick liquid, and fire and smoke rose from other shadowy shapes across the surface. Most of them, she realized, were the floating bodies of dead men. She was the only one alive.

"Miss, are you wounded? Do you require any assistance?"

Catherine was breathing quickly in and out. The awfulness of the situation had finally gotten to her and she was slipping into a state of petrified shock. She tried to reply to the soldier but it felt like she was being strangled. In distance, she heard the stern, chilly voice of the captain again, shouting something that may have been a curse, but then there was the sound of something else plunging into the cold, salty sea not far away from her. A blurry face occupied her sight, saying something she was not able to comprehend, and she passed out. Again.

As soon as she woke up, Catherine knew she no longer was at sea. She brought herself to sitting and examined her environment. Her bed was large and comfortable, with thin, white sheets and soft matching cushions, and although the room was rather frugally decorated, it was spacious and clean. The walls were made of some kind of solid stone and the floor and the ceiling were made of the same dark wood, a closed door placed directly in front if her also in the same material. Sunlight shone through the two—both wide opened—window-paneled double oak doors that were situated at her right and let in the fresh breeze of the sea and something else. It was blowing calmly through the room, which helped maintain the temperature at a pleasant level.

She heard hushed voices outside of her room and the sound of approaching footsteps walking on creaking wooden floor. Catherine quickly got up—or well, she tried to. She swooned at the sudden movement and was forced to sit down again, her body slumping down onto the floor with force. She noticed that someone had taken the liberty to change her clothes and as she raised her fingers to touch her aching head, she felt rough linen bandages wrapped all the way around her forehead and occiput. Someone had also arranged her hair into a long, black braid.

"...well taken care of. Do not fret, sir, I'll make sure of it."

Two people entered her room. One was a short, stout woman with fair hair and a round, kind face, and she was carrying two buckets filled with steaming water and a couple of towels across her left shoulder. She was much older than her companion; a tall, slender man dressed and fully armed as a British officer. He was very handsome, with brown, almost black hair and regal, well-defined features, but there was something utterly cold in the way his jaw was set and his suspicious eyes scrutinized his surroundings. He did not seem like a man of neither mercy nor trust.

Catherine vaguely recalled seeing his face from somewhere, but could not really remember when. The woman's eyes widened in surprise at seeing her on the floor but the officer did not even raise a brow. He stared at her intensely, his green eyes meeting hers, and perhaps it was only her imagination or a trick of the light, but something in his expression changed.

"Oh dearie, what are you doing down there?" exclaimed the woman in surprise and dropped the buckets to the floor. Water spilled over their edges and soaked her simple, worn-out boots, but she did not seem to care. "Did you fall out of the bed?"

"I doubt that very much, Mrs. Campbell," said the officer before Catherine was able to reply. "I presume she rose from the bed far too quickly and lost her footing. You hit your head earlier."

The last thing he said was obviously directed towards Catherine but she was too startled herself to answer. She was wearing nothing but a shift and the presence of the officer made her more than uncomfortable. A man had never seen her during such inappropriate circumstances and her cheeks reddened as she averted her gaze.

"Perhaps you should have introduced yourself first," scolded the woman and halted to turn around. "Now go; you ruined your only chance talking to a proper lady like her. Back you go to your ship, sir."

The way the woman addressed him astonished Catherine. She was so very accustomed to the image of the ever so polite women in London. They were very chatty, and gossiped about everyone, but toward men they always showed their best side. Especially those of lower class. She was so shocked that she forgot to be shy and looked back at her visitors.

The handsome officer shrugged—surprising Catherine yet again with the casualness in their manners—and turned towards the door. "I was going anyway. Farewell, ladies," he said and waved them goodbye, disappearing out of the door which the woman closed after him. She sighed and picked up the buckets, taking them to Catherine.

"I thought you wanted to freshen up. The bathtub is broken so this will have to suffice," she said and placed them next to her, a sweet, lovely scent of perfume or soap filling her nostrils. Catherine flinched away from her but the woman did not seem offended. Instead she crouched down and looked into her eyes, her friendly blue ones greeting her with much warmth, and she urged Catherine to give her her hand. "I'm Celia, dearie, and I keep this inn together with my husband, Mr. Campbell. Will brought you here in the middle of the night, saying you were the sole survivor of a pirate attack. It must have been horrible, but may I ask what you were doing aboard?"

"My father sent for me from London," Catherine managed to say. Images of the dead bodies passed through her vision and she shivered. She slowly gave Mrs. Campbell her left hand and the innkeeper started washing it with a towel she had dipped into the water.

"My name is Catherine. Catherine Porter." She swallowed before asking: "Who is Will?"

"What a beautiful name," murmured the woman. "I could immediately see that you were raised very well, as fair and fragile you look. A rich Londoner." She switched side and started scrubbing at Catherine's right arm with the towel. "William is the infuriating fellow who just left. I must admit he's bloody good-looking as few, that boy, and I would've probably matched him together with my youngest daughter if it weren't for his atrocious attitude."

Catherine stared at her. Mrs. Campbell chuckled and gestured for her to sit up in the bed. She obeyed and the woman turned her attention towards her feet and legs.

"Don't worry, dearie. He's my sister-in-law's nephew so I can be as completely rude as I want to him since I'm the only family he has here," she said as she soaked a new towel and began attending to Catherine's right foot, caressing it with her large, callused hands. "I promise that his pride will kill him one day."

Catherine gasped. "How can you talk about him like that? Do you not love him and wish only the best for him?"

"Dearie," smiled Mrs. Campbell, "of course I love him, but I mustn't deny the truth. I don't recall ever seeing him laugh nor cry, not since he was a little child. He had a tough childhood, losing his parents at that age. He's impossible, always treating everyone and everything like something to be wary of, forever relying on his rude comments and sense of honor, exactly like his father."

"So that was why he was staring at me," mumbled Catherine quietly, but not quiet enough. Mrs. Campbell burst out in laughter and shook her head as she raised her gaze toward Catherine.

"Oh no, dearie," she chuckled, "that was not why. You're a real beauty. Nobody, not even a blind man could miss you walking by, not with eyes like yours. Are they really violet, or just very, very blue?"

Catherine blushed and immediately looked away. "They are violet," she replied and tried to ignore the heat radiating off her cheeks. "Like my mother's. She even wanted to name me 'Amethyst', as the gemstone, but my father did not oblige to her request. He said that my eyes were beautiful but would not define who I am or will be."

"Wise man, your father," said the innkeeper and nodded in agreement. "Were the rest of your family on the ship with you?"

Catherine shook her head. "No, I was journeying alone. My mother passed away not many years ago."

"Any siblings?"

"No."

Mrs. Campbell wiped her hands dry on her apron and rose to standing. "I see," she said. "Are you feeling better now? How's your head? Do you think you can eat something?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Catherine replied and shook her head. "I would only like to go meet my father now, if you don't mind."

"Let me clean your wound first and get you some new clothes," said Mrs. Campbell sternly, her voice clearly indicating that there was no room to argue about it. "Stay here, dearie. I'll be back in a moment."

Mrs. Campbell hurried away with one of the buckets and the wet towels tucked beneath her arm, returning after only a minute. She brought back with her a crate filled with bandages and strangely colored bottles and a set of clothes. Male clothes.

"Well, this is rather humiliating," Mrs. Campbell said as she put the box of medical supplies next to Catherine. "It seems like a servant of mine has forgotten to attend to the laundry. Will's clothes are the only clean clothes I can provide you with, dearie."

Catherine looked at the bundle Mrs. Campbell was holding and suddenly felt guilty over the woman's embarrassment. After all, the innkeeper had taken her in—although most likely because of the officer—and taken care of her. The last thing she wanted was to be ungrateful to the nice innkeeper. She therefore did something she had never expected of herself; she accepted the clothes as gracefully as she could, knowing in the back of mind that her father would provide her with beautiful dresses and accessories as soon as she would arrive. But if she would have been in London and a problem like this would appear, she would have denied wearing men's clothing at all costs, no matter the situation. The worst thing a woman could do was to pretend being a man—there was no larger disgrace.

Mrs. Campbell quickly cleaned her wound and helped her dress. Her injury didn't bleed any more she was told, but Catherine was still slightly dizzy, having a hard time adjusting to the alien feeling of the officer's clothes. She noticed that the clothes fitted her better than she had thought and could not conceal her surprise. Seeing her reaction, Mrs. Campbell laughed, quickly saying, "Will was very scrawny a couple of years back." Her smile widened. "He still is; can't beat my husband in arm wrestling yet. And he calls himself a captain..."

She eyed the finished result up and down, staying quiet for so long that Catherine grimaced even though she knew that no proper lady would have found that suiting. Although no proper lady would have approved of her clothes neither, so there was no reason being bothered at all.

"What is it? Do I look _that_ ridiculous?" asked Catherine finally and gazed down at herself. She was dressed in a white shirt with short sleeves and loose neckline, the fabric well-worn and mended at some places. It hung loose at the sides of her torso, making her feel completely exposed with the absence of a corset, and even though Catherine could clearly see that her skin was covered, she felt naked. Vulnerable. More vulnerable than if she would have worn a light dress. Fortunately enough her trousers reached all the way down to the floor, the brown, worn material dragging across the floor when she moved. She would not have been able to stand being bare-legged. They were still a bit large around her waistline, but the innkeeper quickly noticed it and kept it at place using a black sash.

"Were slightly too large for William as well, so I was already prepared with this," she said as she stepped back and observed Catherine again. "You do fit in the clothes perfectly, dearie. Lucky you were born with such height, or you would've definitely looked ridiculous." Mrs. Campbell pushed a cap over her head, the short woman standing on the very tip of her toes to reach up to Catherine. "My, my, you must have a whole army of handsome, young men just standing in line all day outside your home to ask of you to marry them."

Catherine grimaced again. She could not stop herself; she felt too comfortable with Mrs. Campbell. Her aunt always used to scold her when she made a face, complaining that she was ruining her pretty face and was behaving unladylike, and Catherine had gotten too used to it. She was so very accustomed to always remain polite, quiet and reclined that she felt free, almost relieved, as the innkeeper did not seem bothered at all. In fact, she grimaced as well. "Nobody?"

Catherine nodded, looking away. "I am not really from a rich family. My father only recently became at fortune after a one-year journey at sea; before that he was a simple jeweler and my mother a seamstress. Though my father is now considered a wealthy man even by the standards of London, he and I never became a part of the society again. Nobody there wants anything to do with us."

Her voice trailed off. She had never told anyone of this before. It was an odd mixture of both comfort and pain as she sank down onto the bed with a heavy sigh. "I guess that was why he decided to move here, leaving me alone during almost four years. He cared more for his own comfort and pride than me, forcing me to finish my education for naught."

"Dearie," said Mrs. Campbell and sat down next to her. She took one of Catherine's shaking hands into her own warm grasp and continued with a low, comforting tone. "Your father loves you more than anything, I assure you. I've seen my daughters with the old man, and even though they bicker and fight over the stupidest things, they love each other more than anything. The bond between family is strong, and yet the bond between a daughter and her father is stronger. There's no boundaries to what a father would do for his little girl but still..." She suddenly smiled. "Perhaps one other connection is be stronger. The—"

"—love between a man and a woman," finished Catherine and returned the smile. "Mrs. Campbell, I don't really think—"

"You're still young and foolish, Catherine. There's a lot of things you haven't experienced yet and certainly not love." Mrs. Campbell's smile turned into a grin. "At least judging by the way you were staring at Will, and he at you."

She was not able to reply before the innkeeper cheerfully ran out of the room, shouting something about "laundry" and "throw out the servant". Catherine remained still, too dumbfounded to even have the decency to blush. It was the first time Mrs. Campbell had spoken her name since they met, and even though she had known her kind hostess for only a couple of minutes, she already felt at ease in her presence. Something about Mrs. Campbell was simple and calm, and powerful enough to even make her relax. Catherine knew she was not the most reliable person; she was the kind of girl who would watch someone trip and not do anything to help him or her in any way. She would neither be amused nor look at the injured with empathy nor share some of her own to help the person to standing. She was not brave, like all the heroines she read in her books or saw on the theatre, but not a coward. She mostly stayed quiet, for better or worse, silent and forgettable. Pretty like a flower, as her aunt used to say, but void of emotions and unable to attach to reality.

She remembered always being like this, and her father told himself that she was only maturing and growing to become an adult, but anybody could see that her features were meant to be glad, her mouth meant to always smile and her odd eyes meant to shine with happiness. There was an unexplainable darkness hovering over her—clearly noticeable for the trained eye—distinguishing her from the rest of the crowd as she hurriedly treaded through Havana's dirty streets and squares after putting on pair of too large boots, tucked her hair beneath the old cap and hung a large jacket over her slim shoulders. Different enough from the rest to draw the unwanted attention from a brown-haired male who began following her from a safe distance.


	3. Chapter 3: Demolishing Hope

**Chapter 3:**  
_Demolishing Hope_

The smells and noises of the city overwhelmed her; Catherine had forgotten how loud it was and how many people there could be in one and the same place. Her solitude at sea had changed her, she realized, and she felt most uncomfortable upon reaching a large overcrowded market square, something that she would have rather enjoyed in London.

The people that walked the pavement were from all various parts of the world; some with the characteristic dark, curly hair and black eyes of a Spaniard, another with fair skin and the resolute, gray eyes of an Englishman. Some she could not even guess where they came from, only—judging by their large, harsh tattoos and worn cutlasses—that they were trouble. There were merchants, selling the most exquisite fabric, shining jewelry, and fruit and vegetables in every color, dazzling the customers with their enthralling shine. The air was too thick and too heavy for her to breathe with the overwhelming scent of food, sugary incenses and perfumes mixed with the stale stench of sweat and urine, but Catherine could not stop looking around herself in awe. She had never experienced so much life and organized disorder; the world really was a completely different one in the Caribbean.

Catherine noticed a merry group of gaunt children sneak their way through the cramped marketplace, their nimble fingers slipping into every pocket and bag. They did not steal from the vendors or their small shops, but kept to the buyers probably because of an unsaid agreement between the thieves and the sellers: focus on defrauding the customers, the fortunate ones with money, since we are poor.

Her eyes rested on a boy who seemed particularly eager to steal an elderly lady's golden bracelet, the woman standing next to her husband and a male slave, now and then rubbing her back. The couple seemed fully occupied browsing carpets, chatting to the seller with friendly voices, and the latter was staring obediently into the ground. The boy whispered something to his two friends—one had a large, horrible scar across the left side of his face—standing next to him while gesturing something with his hand. They laughed but the boy immediately hushed at them and approached the woman with careful steps. Catherine had seen some of the thieves walk by their victims like they were close relatives, stealing everything of worth as they were ignored by everyone, but this boy moved with an almost feline grace towards his target. He could barely be more than ten, but he still possessed the confidence of someone twice his age. Catherine watched him with fascination as his quick fingers managed to unlatch the heavy bracelet and he gently slipped it into his pocket. But something must have made him aware of her curious gaze, because he whipped around with a scorn on his sunburned face and looked directly at her.

Catherine flinched, embarrassed that he had caught her staring, but her reaction was nothing to the boy's. His jaw dropped and he visibly started shaking, his hands falling numbly to his sides and his charcoal eyes unable to drop hers. She instinctively took a step towards him, worried that he would knock into the lady he had stolen the bracelet from, with a calming gesture, but she could as likely have pushed him over; he stumbled backwards and fell into the woman's many skirts, his former elegance as gone as it had never existed. The lady shrieked, screaming something that sounded Spanish but still not, and her husband turned around to see what was bothering his beloved. His dark eyes widened in shock at seeing the thief between the legs of his wife and he brutally lifted him up, shouting something in the same language as the lady. Catherine saw the saliva fly from his mouth and land on the boy's dirty face, but the child did not even seem to notice he was there. His expression was blank like a sheet of paper and his eyes, dead, as he stared at her in a mixture of fear and recognition.

Catherine frowned. She had never seen someone as terrified as the boy, but she still knew that he was afraid of her. Before she was able to do anything, two neutrally dressed soldiers pushed their way past her and headed for the thief. They brusquely seized him from the man, gripping the boy by his thin arms, but as soon as they turned to take the same route back as they had come, the boy was released from his spell. He screamed loud in Spanish and struggled to get loose, his voice hoarse and panicked. Catherine was not too familiar with the language, having been taught only French and English, but she was able to comprehend one word being repeated over and over again: _demonio_.

Demon.

Catherine tried to stay as unseen as she could and subtly hurried through the large market place. More and more people seemed to be gathering around the boy, curious to see what was going to happen, but she did not wish to remain any longer. He kept screaming _demonio_ even when she reached the other side of the square, but before she decided to turn around, his voice was abruptly silenced. Catherine froze for a moment, her heart racing and her breathing labored, but then continued with fresh determination in search for her father. The child's fate was well deserved, she told herself. He had been stealing and he got caught. Punishment serves people like him right. She ignored the little voice telling her it had been her fault that he was found out in the first place, and more so how he had appeared to know her.

The many streets were hard to keep track on and most buildings looked identical. Catherine felt like she was running around in circles and it was close to night when she finally managed to find the mansion of her father's. She immediately recognized it, having seen a roughly drawn sketch of it in the same letter from her father that had told her she would finally be living with him after she finished her education.

She was eighteen now, the age of a woman, but Catherine did not feel much like a lady at all, even after all of her aunt's feeble attempts to induce her to adulthood. She disliked the intoxicating taste and smell of wine, the expensive fine china that everyone seemed to be fuzzing over, and she did not care what the latest fashion was. She possibly bothered less about what to expect from a woman and she neither had an interest for the other sex. Her only wish had been to see the world—no, what she wanted was freedom. Freedom from all customs and traditions, every social rule and order, the corruption of money and status; Catherine had not felt at home in her aunt's home in London, being taught how to fold one's skirts when seated or how to drink tea with a rigid, upright demeanor. She was happy now, to finally have been able to escape from the coldness of London and stand in what felt like the center of the world. The warmth of the midday sun against her skin, the brilliant colors of the exotic environment and the honesty of the denizens here made her old, distant memories of rainy London slowly but surely fade away, as ships sailing away into the horizon. She would start anew here in Havana, together with her father. They would perhaps never be the family they used to be when her mother was alive, but they would try.

Filled with a strange peace that she had never experienced in her whole life, Catherine walked through the opened iron gate and into a large, beautiful garden filled with well-trimmed rose bushes, proud, tall trees that she knew not the name of, lusciously green grass and raked gravel paths. The descending sun shone on a gigantic, sand-colored building that was placed in the center of the garden, its many rows of darkened windows staring at her through the large, teardrop-shaped leaves and bright flowers of slithering vines. It was so calm there, a completely different feeling than the so very evident poverty just outside the high walls. Her thoughts went back to the child-thief, and she wondered how the whole situation earlier might had elapsed if only she would have done something about it. She knew her father to be very, very rich, so perhaps she could have been able to persuade the soldiers to let go of the boy using bribes. But she shook her head and sighed, realizing that the child never would have accepted her help in the first place. Being called _demonio_ could never be a good sign when attempting to help someone.

Catherine cleared her mind from her troubled ideas and continued walking. Her sturdy boots crunched against the gravel but as she halted, she noticed that it had been the only sound in the whole courtyard. She looked around, searching for any sign of life, but heard not even the sharp sounds of chirping birds amidst the tree branches. The mansion seemed abandoned, almost desolated, and Catherine started running towards the majestical building with the eerily familiar feeling that something horrible had happened. She had experienced the very same sensation the evening her mother had passed away, like a growing emptiness in her heart that threatened to consume her with its painless nothingness, and her worst fears and nightmares all became reality at once as she entered the mansion. Amidst four guards slumped against the wall, unmoving and with long, red gashes across their throats and a tall, armed butler laying on a smashed table with a gunshot through his head, her father was lying on the marble floor with a growing pool of scarlet liquid beneath him.

"Papa!"

She was a child again, screaming so loud that it hurt even in her own ears. Catherine rushed to his side and kneeled—glad that she was wearing men's clothes instead of an unpractical skirt—in a position where she avoided the blood. She felt sick, nauseous, and she first hesitated before carefully touching her father's pale face with a trembling hand.

"Cathy...?"

She gasped. Her father's eyelids flickered open and his kind, intelligent eyes were glittering with tears of happiness even though his weary visage was crinkled in pain.

"Is that... Is that you?" he whispered and coughed. Blood trickled down the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I'm here," Catherine replied, her voice wavering; she did not know what else to say. "I'm here."

He reached up for her hand and gripped it firmly. "You must leave immediately," he breathed and his blue eyes drilled into hers. "Return to London." He coughed out blood but when Catherine tried to help him he shoved her away with surprising strength. "Or they will come for you as well—everyone will come for you. Even _him_."

Catherine's heart froze. "Why?" she wondered, her mind not really comprehending the scenery in front of her. "Who are they? Who is 'he'?"

Her father opened his mouth to answer but instead of words, he spat out blood. His whole body convulsed in a series of attacks as he tried to gulp for air but when Catherine reached out for him but he pushed her away again.

"You must go... leave now! Before it's too late—"His eyes suddenly widened, as if he was seeing someone behind her, but when Catherine turned around nobody was there. She returned her focus to her father and ignored his bloodied fingers as she gently pushed his protesting hands away. He was fading away; she could see it in the way his face and shoulders relaxed and his breathing pace slowed down.

"I won't leave you!" she exclaimed, now furious at her father. "You will survive; I'll find you some help, just wait and—"

To her surprise he chuckled, although his amusement was quickly exchanged with a grimace of pain. "Nothing in the entire world can save me with my injuries," he whispered and his thin, blueish lips made an effort to smile. "I'm a dead man talking."

Catherine had not been aware of her tears until her father wiped them off her cheeks. She cried out in sorrow and frustration and clutched his fragile hands with hers, not caring at all that her face got smeared with blood. She knew he was right and that she only was refusing to accept it—refusing of letting him go. It was selfish of her to think like that when her father was dying, but she did not want to be left alone. Even though she prayed, prayed with more fervor than ever, her vision of a blissful, calm future with her father shattered in a thousand pieces as she watched him peacefully close his eyes for the final time and heard his breathing cease.

Catherine did not know for how long she remained at her dead father's side, her cheeks painted with congealed blood, but time hardly seemed like anything she had to worry about and so she chose not to care. She stared at her father, the once proud, less gray-haired man named Charles Porter, recalling his smiles and happiness when her mother had been alive and weeped silently. When she finally rose, her body was numb with an inner cold and she awkwardly tripped on her feet and fell next to the lifeless butler. She did not even blink as her knees and elbows hit the hard floor, her face only inches away from a menacing-looking, broken table leg, but the new angle made her eyes instantly fix onto the dead man; he was holding something in his hand.

Curious, Catherine crawled to the body and pried open his cold fingers to see what it was. She did not care that her actions would have been considered profane and unforgivably disrespectful but she struggled and managed at last to release the butler's iron grip of the object. To her surprise, she picked up an oval-shaped, golden charm, dangling at the end of a long, thin chain. It looked expensive, with beautiful carvings and was definitely a woman's. Having some experience with jewelry due to her father's profession, Catherine knew that the pendant could be opened. She found the almost unnoticeably small latch at its peak and as she pushed the lid aside, the necklace revealed an exquisitely painted portrait of a young woman. She had dark, curly hair cut short to her shoulders and would not be considered a natural beauty with the long scar cut diagonally across the right side of her face starting from her cheek and eyebrow all the way to her the hairline, and her thin lips, but Catherine found that there was something incredibly admirable in the strength and fearlessness of the woman's brown eyes and the firmness of her set jaw. She was not exactly smiling, but she seemed happy nonetheless.

The painter must have been someone close to her, thought Catherine with renewed sorrow and glanced back at her father. A part of her wanted to hurl the necklace into the ground or throw it into the sea for having reminded her again of her father's passing, but she knew that it was a clue to finding her father's murderer or murderers; it hardly seemed like one woman could have been able to such cold-blooded killing—killing at all—but Catherine would not negate any possible theories. She put on the necklace but before she closed it shut, she noticed that there was a name engraved into the inner side of the golden lid. _Mary Read_, she read. The name did not say much and she tucked the charm underneath her shirt, washed her hands and face clean in a pond in the courtyard, then headed the dizzyingly long way back to Mrs. Campbell's. Catherine tried to think up with a believable story, something she could lie about instinctively, without thinking, but when the door opened and the sleepy innkeeper anxiously asked her what had happened, she burst into tears and could tell neither truth nor lie.


	4. Chapter 4: The Four

_Author's note:_

_This story will be updated as regularly as possible but I cannot exactly promise you a precise range of time in which the chapters will be posted. It will all depend on how I feel and stuff. I hope you've enjoyed reading thus far and will continue supporting me. Thanks._

_Natalie: this will be a long-run, hopefully._

* * *

**Chapter 4:**  
_The Four_

Mary Read, mostly known as the notorious pirate James Kidd, was already in Nassau when she absentmindedly searched for the familiar shape of her pendant and found it gone. She was resting on a bench inside a small bar with her wounded leg stretched out in front of her and swore loudly of both the discovery and the rough treatment of her nurse.

"Can't be gentler than this, Kidd. Relax."

Mary glared at him. "Not that, you bloody moron," she replied venomously. "I've lost something."

"Oh, I bet you have," he said with a crooked smile, not looking up at her, and wrapped the fabric tighter around her thigh.

She gritted her teeth in an effort to hide the pain. "Shut up, Kenway." She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned towards him. "I've lost me my necklace," she said, making sure that nobody but him could hear. "I think I lost it in Havana."

"In the fight? Sloppy." He inquiringly raised a blonde eyebrow and looked at her, his beautiful gray eyes glittering with amusement. She ignored the urge to hit him, knowing he would just find it even more amusing, and crossed her arms.

"I'll have to return immediately," Mary said with a disappointed sigh and averted her gaze. She could never look at him for long; he stirred up something within her, something she was determined to keep hidden. "I knew we shouldn't have busted in like that. Would you take me back?"

"With that leg?" he asked with a laughter but when he saw that she remained indifferent, he rose to standing and shook his head. "No way, Kidd. You'll barely be able to take a piss like that, much less handle a trip by sea. Rest—even your monk friend told you that while patching you up."

Mary frowned. "Watch your tongue," she warned. She was not fond of the way he mocked her mentor and a day like this when she was already irritated enough, she would perhaps had insulted him further, but she was, in all honesty indeed, too tired. "Just help me to Havana and I'll be fine."

"I'm not sailing you anywhere," he said stubbornly and set his jaw, looking even more handsome. She hated to admit it, but he really was attractive; in the light of the burning hearth his blonde hair seemed like gold and his eyes tinted with azure. "Perhaps you oughta use your own ship sometimes?"

"She was practically demolished at Tulum, due to the map that you so cheerily sold out. I don't believe I've said thanks yet, Edward," Mary snarled, the memory aching in her heart. Her ship, the _Vendetta_, had only been a shadow of her former glory after the Templars attack on Tulum, the Assassins' headquarters in the Carribbean. Even though she had been careful to hide her precious ship between high cliffs, the enemy found it and launched a surprise attack onto her crew. The Templars fortunately retreated—Edward's doing—before any larger damage could be inflicted but the _Vendetta_ was still being repaired and the costs had been enormous, forcing her to almost quit her drinking, which would have been twice as catastrophic.

"Right, but that still does not make me guilty of torture, which it will be if I let you tag along." He almost smiled. _Bastard_, she thought bitterly. "You just do what one would do with a gun shot through their leg and I will be the gentleman and bring you back your precious necklace. Deal?"

"Not so loud!" Mary hissed and looked around, just then realizing they were alone. She had a very distant memory that Edward called the barman to fetch some hot water as he helped her to the bench, but that had been a long time ago. It was in the middle of the night, so she didn't know where she had gotten the idea that there were amongst people, and almost dumbfounded she cleared her throat. "Never mind," she murmured.

"Seems like even you go a bit loose in the head when in pain. Interesting."

Mary exhaled heavily. "Whatever," she said and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sure."

"Sure what?" he asked provokingly.

She found her gun in the same moment as him and aimed at his head. Although her vision was now so blurry she could barely see his face, she knew she would not miss. Not at this range.

"Your arm is trembling awfully much. Scared you'd regret your decision and want me back from the dead?"

Mary shook her head. "Maybe, but I need you—to get my necklace back," she quickly added and cursed inwardly. She had almost spoken it aloud, something she hadn't even done in safe solitude. "I won't overshoot your large head, Edward. Don't fuck with me."

He grinned widely; she couldn't see it but she felt it, clear as day. "Fine," he said and turned towards the door, giving her a slight wave. "Going."

"But you—I haven't even explained how it looks—" she stammered, but he didn't stop.

"I'm not blind, I've seen you wear it," he nonchalantly said over his shoulder, mid-exit. "Women," he muttered and immediately ducked for an incoming bullet. Mary swore again and threw her emptied gun at the door, but Edward Kenway was already far away, headed for his ship. She sunk down in her seat with a scowl when she suddenly realized that if he had spotted her pendant, he must've seen into her shirt which would mean...

Her face blossomed with a fierce red and she groaned loudly in annoyance.

* * *

Catherine Lilian Porter could not remember when she had fallen asleep last night but waking up in the same bed as yesterday, her father's death seemed almost like a vague dream. But only almost—the harsh reminder of the weight of the pendant on her chest immediately made her eyes brim over with tears, and she buried her face in the pillow and cried and cried, feeling as if her heart would break. She rarely let go of her strict, self-taught demeanor, being never more than friendly and polite, but she could not even stay remotely calm; there was a feeling of hysteria and panic in every hitched breath and uncontrollable whimper. But in her grief was also something else, something that steadily grew stronger than both her sorrow and despair. Catherine was furious; she had never felt so frustrated and anguished in her whole life.

Her sobbing ceased. She stiffly rose up from the bed and noticed three new items in the room. A vanity table was placed against the wall to her left and on top of it lay a wide bowl of water and an old hand mirror. Catherine was surprised to see the polished glass; she had not thought the inn would provide with such an exclusivity to their guests. Approaching the expensive object, she held it up and looked at her reflection for the first time since she left London.

Black, long curls framed a small, unassuming face where a slight tan was starting to cling onto the young woman's otherwise pale complexion. Her mouth was small, accustomed to always remaining closed, but her nose was straight and proud, like her mother's. There was nothing particularly striking about her features and she looked completely fatigued and exhausted, her hair in a mess and two dark, purple crescents beneath her tired eyes. She was still wearing men's clothing—although her boots and cap had somehow vanished—but for once her mind was too preoccupied to care about being as ladylike as she could.

Catherine could barely recognize herself. She did not consider herself handsome—the streets of London had been filled with much more handsome ladies with both the proper name and value—or even pretty, but the color of her eyes were definitely rare—beautiful, even. She stared at the mirror, looking into the strange but ever so familiar violet orbs of her own gaze, and recalled as younger when living with her aunt. She had mostly spent the time alone, sad and afraid, but confident that her eyes brought with her extraordinary powers such as time-traveling or the ability to become invisible. That had of course been a mere child's fantasy; years passed without the slightest indication that she was any more special than her cousins, and with time her naïveté disappeared and she closed herself from the world. It was the easiest way for her to deal with being abandoned by both of her parents on such a short period of time, but definitely not the best solution in the long run.

Someone knocked on the door, rousing Catherine from her reverie. She put back the mirror onto the table, quickly washed her face and gently wiped her face dry with a soft towel that had been hiding beneath the brim of the wooden bowl. The person outside knocked at her door again, this time a bit more urgently, and she anxiously hurried to open it after making sure that her—the officer's—clothes were properly covering her. And speaking of the devil; the officer was standing outside her room with a frown across his handsome features and holding a tray of food. His slender but strong frame was dressed in a loose, well-worn shirt and his long, slim legs were covered with a pair of simple pants ending into two dirty boots, but he managed nonetheless to look strikingly handsome. She saw that his dark hair was damp with water, and his sharp, intensely green eyes widened in surprise when seeing her.

"You actually fit in those clothes," he remarked and then recollected himself, looking as stern as he had done yesterday. Catherine had not noticed it earlier, but both he and Mrs. Campbell spoke with a different accent than her, his words running smoothly out of his bow-shaped mouth in a dark, silky voice. American. "May I ask who they actually belong to?"

"I did not steal them!" Catherine exclaimed immediately. Shocked with her boldness, she averted her gaze and fumbled with her next sentences. "I mean—if that is what you suspect, sir, I... I can ensure you that your—Mrs. Campbell gave them to me. Go ask her if you do not believe in me."

"Won't be necessary, I already know."

Catherine looked up at the tall officer again, this time in vexation. "May I inquire why you asked me about it then?" she wondered with a frown. She was too tired to care about etiquette and the rules of a lady. "Wasn't that awfully rude?"

"No and yes," he answered and shrugged when she looked at him in confusion. "Just take your food," he ordered coolly and handed her the heavy tray. "Mr and Mrs. Campbell left earlier today to order a new bathtub, and I was asked to give you some food as soon as you woke up. I heard you from downstairs. I have much to be done today and you've slowed down my schedule so far. If you'd please, Miss Catherine."

Even though he sounded polite, there was no mistaking his obvious annoyance. Catherine did not think it was only because of her that he was being late to whatever appointment he had to rush away to, and decided instead to punish him for his imprudence by gleefully taking slightly more of his precious time. It was not like her, but then again, she had never really been anyone in London. She was also aware why Mrs. Campbell had appointed the officer to do this instead of a servant and tried not to blush as she grimaced and sunk down by the weight of the tray and the food.

"You cannot possibly force me to carry this all the way to my bed," she lamented and handed him back the tray. "Please put it there, sir."

The officer raised his eyebrows but did not protest. He took three long strides across the room and gently placed the food onto her unmade bedding.

"Here," he said and turned back towards her and the door. But before he exited, he halted and glanced at her, saying, "Since Mrs. Campbell already seem to be so fond of you, I might as well introduce myself. My name is William, but you can call me—"

"—Will," Catherine finished, smiling when he stared at her. "She talks about you very fondly. And incessantly."

William huffed. He did not appear familiar to being interrupted. "I see," he murmured and cleared his throat. "Anyways, I was told about your current situation with your father." She paled and her smile stiffened. "I'm so sorry about what happened," he went on, holding her gaze with his. "I lost both of my parents as young as well—

Catherine's smile was genuine again, even though her heart cringed by the mentioning of her father. "Yes, Mrs. Campbell told me that as well. You surely understand my pain."

"Bloody woman," he sighed and pulled back his hair. "Too damned busy matching me with every girl she finds but can't even find proper servants..."

Catherine could not hinder her laughter; it was short and cheerful, barely more than a chuckle, but her joy seemed to be spreading to Will and he swiftly left with a courteous bow but without a word to say goodbye. She did not mind it, because she had seen the right corner of his mouth curve into a smile and that, unexplainably, made her far happier than she would have been by some flattering amenities. There was something special about him—and not only the completely obvious fact that he was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen—, something that made her care about him.

She shook her head clear from her thoughts of the officer and closed the door behind her. Catherine slumped down onto her bed and ate everything that lay on the tray, surprised by her famine. Her meal was rather simple, consisting of different kinds of exotic fruits similar to the ones she had seen in the market yesterday, freshly baked bread with creamy butter and cool tea. As soon as she was finished, her fatigue returned with renewed strength and she fell asleep in an instant.

* * *

William Reginald Meyers did not like Havana. He found the city too loud, too large and too corrupted. Every nation had some jobbery going on behind the scenes, where the rich became richer and the poor poorer—even his beloved birthplace Boston—but this place disgusted him beyond measures with its outrageous conditions. Young women dressed in inappropriate skirts and blouses that exposed their delicate body parts were dancing on almost every street, inviting hungry men to pay them for some intimate games. Beggars could be found everywhere, famished and battered like street dogs, robbed of both their self-esteem and money, and doing no more good than the whores by scrounging for every real. Because that's what they all were. Dirty people and dirtier money. Will looked around himself and saw nothing more than death and decay, human beings who had lost the very thing that defined a human being—honor.

But maybe he was the one who was wrong. He thought about it often, contemplating why his surroundings found him so stubborn and proud. Perhaps he was the one with a misguided sense of regard for himself and others, perhaps his "honor" was nothing more than a foolishness, like he considered the people who believed in a higher force. Will had been born into Christianity but he did not think of God as a god, merely a projected image created by human weakness. He had been a good student at school, always scoring the best possible result in most of his classes, and the subject of history had been his favorite. He had learned that time after time, mankind clashed against itself in belief of nothing more than a simple books and myths. There was nothing more than legends. Legends and cowards. There was no use trusting some ancient scripts to save your life or worse—fight for it. His honor was at least justified and respectable, and nothing that he could use as an excuse to harm other people with.

And that was why William was so lonesome. He saw the world differently—some might even say cynical—and refused to listen to anybody than himself. It wasn't egoism or narcissism—those would have at least granted him somewhat of a humanity, as most considered him cold-hearted and soulless—he simply calculated what option would provide him with the best results and acted in such a way. This ability to focus was what made him seem so ambitious, lucky and a dangerous enemy; he was already ranked as a captain of the East Indian Trading Company at the age of twenty-one and was rapidly climbing the steps up to commodore. With his brilliant intelligence and steadfast coolness it was rarely anybody who could outwit him or walk out a winner against him in a fair duel, and he was well aware of the jealousy and hatred toward him, though it never was of any bother. He was confident in himself but never cocky, and he found that surprisingly many had difficulty separating the two words. He was strong-minded and stern, but not completely without humor. Which reminded him of Catherine. She had almost made him smile.

William was in the northwest side of Havana and hurried into an alley, dressed casually to melt in with his environment. His appearance brought on a couple of flirtatious glances and scandalous proposals as he passed a group of scantily clad women, but he did not even condescend to look at them. They made loud disappointed noises and called at him with words too inappropriate to repeat but he ignored them as well. His mind was now fully occupied with Catherine, the young woman whose late father would soon become a matter of his.

He was no stranger to being stared at—God only knows that he's been the favored topic of countless of men and women during the course of his life—but he had himself never stared at anyone, and especially not a woman. As unobtrusive and ever so serious as he was, he never found time for a relationship, but he knew somewhat about women, that as lovely and sweet they might seem, they were all as dangerous and unpredictable as a loaded pistol. Though he could not remember when he had last gazed upon something more beautiful than Catherine Porter, would it be guns or women. Her hair was the darkest shade of ebony, as black as the night itself, and she had the fragile, gentle features of a true aristocrat, her skin fair as porcelain. She had a slender figure with a narrow waist, long, elegant legs and a rather flat chest, but he did not care about the latter.

_ And her eyes_, he thought and ventured further down the alley until he reached the last door. _I've never seen the likes. It feels like she can pierce through steel with only a quick look and burn me alive without any effort at all._

William knocked on the door and a tiny, wooden hatch opened from the other side in level with his chin. He leaned down slightly and was met with two, familiar gray eyes that lighted up with recognition, but yet the man's stern voice mumbled into the wood: "Password."

He sighed and rolled with his eyes but obeyed. "Whiskey and banana pie," William said with a disgusted expression. It sounded hideous; he despised both alcohol and sweets.

The door opened and he was let in.

"Welcome back to the Brotherhood, sir. The Grand Master has been waiting for your report."

* * *

Edward James Kenway considered himself a simple man with even simpler goals. Money. Gold and jewelry in humongous heaps. Rum and whiskey. A—but he wasn't gonna protest having more than just one—good ship with a loyal crew. But women? Nay.

He grinned widely as he steered his ship, the beautiful Jackdaw, into the port of Havana at midday. The weather had been perfect for sailing, and although he had had a run into a couple of bounty hunters, no other ship could match the Jackdaw in speed and maneuverability, especially in tailwind. Edward hadn't wanted to fight them, knowing that he was on an urgent business, but regretted it slightly now; the hunters always carried a nice bag of gold and loved to pay more individually when their lives where at stake. That is, if he didn't kill them all anyways and looted their bodies. Which was his usual routine with pathetic bounty hunters.

_ They can't touch me. Nobody can_.

"Adéwalé!" Edward signaled for his friend and his beloved ship's quartermaster to take point. "Going for a quick run, I have some things that gotta be done," he called at a dark, muscular man who was helping carrying some crates of sugar to the wharf from the lower decks. Adéwalé looked at him and simply nodded, too exhausted to speak.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, lads, so be ready to cast off anytime!"

Edward approached the Jackdaw's starboard side and swiftly vaulted over the gunwale, his hands sliding across the firm, warm wood for a second, and landed on the bridge with a smooth movement. He quickly sprinted towards land without further ado, and headed towards the fancy mansion he had visited yesterday evening and helped James Kidd murder a target.

It was weird, he thought. Only until of recent he had been revealed Kidd's secret—her true identity—but he wasn't especially astonished anymore when recalling the moment on the windmill. He even found it strange that he hadn't figured it out earlier and by himself; it was pretty damn obvious that James was no man. Edward had never heard him—her—speak about women in the nasty way, nor seen hi—her bare chested.

He liked her. She was a good person, no matter if she wore men's clothes or not, and sometimes it felt like she was the only reasonable one he could talk to. Mary was a good fighter, fierce and dexterous and even pretty when she didn't scowl of smile menacingly... which wasn't often but still a plus. But lately, he felt like something was going on with her, that something was bothering on her mind. He was contemplating whether he should give it a shot and ask her or just wait and—

"Come on, handsome, up for some fun?"

Edward snapped back to reality. His eyes turned to a red-haired beauty who sat perched on a low fence, her legs crossed and back craned. Her voluptuous bosom bounced gloriously off the rest of her curvaceous body as she giggled and fluttered her long eyelashes at him. "I bet you are," she taunted and giggled again, covering her red lips with her hand. "Gorgeous man like you oughta be very tired after days at sea."

He was amused. "And how'd you know I've been at sea?" he asked, halting. "I hardly look or dress like a sailor."

"I can see it on your legs, handsome," she replied teasingly, blinking meaningly. "All you sailors walk alike."

"I admit I'm rather impressed with your perceptive ability," Edward said, raising his eyebrows, and then started walking away from her. "But not enough to make me stay."

"No fun!" she called, her voice slowly fading away into the usual noise of the city as his steps took him elsewhere. "Why no? You won't find any better girl than me in whole Havana!"

Edward turned around with a smile on his face. He didn't care about the looks that people gave him as he shouted the woman a content answer.

"You oughta look at my finger instead of my cock, as mighty as it seems. I'm happily married, fool!"


	5. Chapter 5: Assassin

**Chapter 5:**  
_Assassin_

_"You must leave immediately, Cathy. Return to London."_

_His grip tightened around her cold, stiff fingers, knuckles whitening. His hands were still surprisingly warm, as warm and firm as they had been when he was alive. He did not seem in pain, even though she could see the thick blood pouring out of his wound. She was happy he did not have to suffer, even though this was just a dream._

_She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but her voice, although spoken, said something differently but yet familiar. She had asked him before as well, in reality, but he had dodged to reply. Now since he was alive again, he might just have the time...  
_

_"Who is he?" she asked sternly, ignoring his warning. "Who are they all? Why will they search for me?"  
_

_Her father did not seem surprised. "I see you're straight to point, my daughter," he replied. "Your mother would've been very proud of you."_

_"Quickly father, your fading," she uttered, and gently stroke her bloodied finger across his cheek. "I can feel it. Now tell me."_

_"Yes, yes, I'll—"_

The single shot of a gun woke her.

Catherine sprung to her feet in an instant, her forcible movement dragging with her the blanket—and the remnants of her first meal in Havana. It all fell down on the floor, the plate and cup clattering together with a horrendously loud noise, and then the large tray as the final touch of the chaotic commotion. She resisted the urge to scream in frustration since something far more dangerous had roused her from sleep. A gunshot had sounded from downstairs, she was sure of it.

The floor creaked from the hall. Footsteps.

Catherine flinched but calmly held her breath and looked about, desperately searching for something to defense herself with. The double doors were opened as usual and moonlight poured in, filling her room with a soft glow, and she crouched down to pick up the tray which was the best possible object she noticed. It would suffice, she hoped, if not in a duel, then to bash someone's head with.

Her feet bare, Catherine managed to soundlessly cross the room armed with nothing but a piece of wood. It was of rather dense and hard material, but she would still have no chance against someone armed with a pistol. Pressed against the wall right next to the door, she allowed herself to breathe again and tried to listen for footsteps, but the silence was terrifying and absolute; she heard nothing but her own rapidly beating heart and the careful inhaling of her mouth. The moon shone on her, illuminating her sweaty features and frightened eyes, and she knew that she had to be swift to attack and not hesitate. This was life and death.

She prayed fervently. _Whoever it might be... _She swallowed nervously and pulled back her hair. _Please don't come here_.

The doorknob twisted and the door flung open. Catherine grimaced bitterly, her knees and arms shaking in nervousness, and counted to three before swinging the tray towards a dark figure that came into view. She must have whimpered or made her presence known in some way, because the shadow whipped around and immediately lifted his arm to block the hit, gripping her by her one wrist. Catherine dropped the tray in shock, her body growing cold with pure fear, and instincts took over. But before she was able to scream, she was spun around, her back pushed against the stranger by the hold of his left arm, and quieted by a slender hand that covered her mouth. A husky, exhausted, but not completely unfamiliar voice whispered into her ear: "Shut it!"

Catherine tried to get loose but he held her even tighter. "Let me go!" she exclaimed into his hand, although it sounded more like inaudible murmurings. He moved it away and she hissed, "God!"

"Close enough," said William, his voice dripping with mockery. "But you may call me by my mortal name. It's Will."

Catherine exhaled, but it was more in relief than irritation. It's Will. "What happened? When did you get back? What time is it? I thought—"

"I guess my question is answered," he interrupted. "You talk too much, just like Mrs. Campbell. No wonder she likes you. I think I rather liked you more when you were scared of me, then you did at least respect me. Didn't you get any proper education?"

"How dare you—" Her face was flushed with anger. "You are the most hideous man I've ever met! Completely atrocious, disrespectful, rude..."

Her voice trailed off as she struggled to look at William. His grip loosened but only slightly, and she glanced at him, although immediately regretting her decision to do so. He looked like a glorious knight atop his steed, standing proud and determined on the field of battle even when far outnumbered by his enemies. The moon cast its pale light on his face, giving him an almost ethereal beauty and created dramatic shadows across his angular features, lining his dark hair with silver. She could feel the beating of his heart against her back, fast but rhythmical, and he smelled like soap, water and smoke. His eyes looked greener and sharper than ever before and she understood by the look in those emerald-green orbs that he was waiting for someone. They sparkled furious yet calm and she could feel the tension in his still posture, like a predator waiting for its prey to come just a little bit closer.

"Will—" she started but was cut off again.

"Show your face, murderer," said William loudly, his eyes scanning the darkness of the hall. "I know you're there."

Catherine froze as a woman slowly emerged from the dark, her one hand wielding a flintlock pistol and the other a short dagger. She was dressed in loose breeches, knee-high boots, a dirty, sleeveless shirt and a strange jerkin made by animal skin with a hood, revealing a muscular but short frame. For a horrible moment Catherine thought it was Mary Read, the woman in the charm, but the gunner's skin on her naked arms was too dark. Her face was covered by the small hood to protect her anonymity, but she spoke English with a rich, Spanish accent.

"Hand me the girl and I promise I'll spare you," she said, her voice revealing no emotions at all. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, boy. Leave."

William huffed defiantly and held Catherine closer to his chest. "Wouldn't think so," he said nonchalantly. "I'm not afraid of assassins."

There was something with the way he said "assassins" that made her think it should be with a capital letter in the beginning, like a name, but she brushed away the thought; either Will meant for it to sound mockingly, or she was too terrified at the moment to have a sense of mind at all. The latter felt humiliating, so she chose the first.

"You're brave," the woman said and entered the room. William carefully took a step back for each step she advanced. "But bravery can be stupid. No more need to die."

"'No more need to die'?" echoed Catherine numbly. "Will, what—"

He hushed at her, his eyes not even once wavering from the stranger. "Be quiet," he whispered into her ear, his hot breath tickling her cheek and neck. "Why do you want her?" William raised his voice. "Tell me, or I won't let go."

The woman chuckled in cold amusement and aimed her gun at him. "I wouldn't talk like that if I were you," she said. "I don't like killing children, boy."

"I know," replied William, and Catherine could feel him smirk. "And that's why you'll die."

Before either she or the armed woman could react, William brandished a gun from seemingly nowhere and shot the Spaniard in the head. The bullet pierced into her skull and through it with a loud, sickening sound and Catherine was suddenly glad that William was holding her; she would have fainted if else.

The woman fell facing the floor and a dark pool of blood appeared on the floor, beneath the shape of her hood. The thump of her recently alive body made Catherine nauseous and she quickly freed herself from William and ran to the balcony. Reaching the metal-made balustrade, she bent over it and tried to calm down her rioting body, forcing down the taste of bile in the back her throat.

"Breathe slowly."

Cool, soothing hands gently gathered all of her hair into a bundle to the left side of her neck and then touched her forehead. She was hot, her complexion humid with sweat, and her eyes were wide opened in shock. "She... had a gun," uttered Catherine as she stared down at her trembling fingers. "She was going to kill us right? She—"

"Well," replied Will, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before, "she was going to kill _me_."

"God." Catherine waited for him to correct her but he refrained. "Dear God." Her breath caught in her throat. "What if—if Mrs—Mrs. Campbell is—"

"She's not." He cut her off again, but she did not care. "I got a message that they decided to spend a night extra in Boston when I got back here late afternoon. I oughta prolong their visit there, since this won't be easy to return to."

Catherine inhaled deeply. "That's good," she murmured, her eyes closed. His cold hand felt wonderful against her skin and she was slowly starting to relax. "Who do you think she is?" she then asked in a normal tone. "She seemed Spanish, but that was all I managed to comprehend."

"I was going to check right after making sure you weren't going to scream bloody murder." Catherine opened her eyes. "Or throw yourself over the balcony railing. The fall wouldn't kill you but probably attract a lot of attention."

"How can you be so nonchalant about it?" she asked, suddenly feeling angry, and pushed his hand away even though her body protested. "You just outright shot a woman in the head!"

William's voice was stern as he replied. "I have a fully legal right to defend myself and the fair damsel in a situation like this," he said and sarcastically bowed, "even if it results in the death of the hostile part. You don't even have to be ranked a captain to do that, but the title sure helps in court."

"You are a horrible man!" exclaimed Catherine, but immediately regretted it. Just a couple of days in Havana and she was already becoming hotheaded, completely out of line regarding any proper etiquette and awfully rude. William had, after all, saved her life. Whoever the woman was, she had clearly been targeting Catherine, and here she was insulting her rescuer. A child's foolish behavior, as her aunt would have said. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"I don't mind," he answered and turned around, leaving her alone on the balcony. She thought she noticed the slightest change in his cold eyes as he had spoken, a glint of surprise in all the crystalline green, but then again she had only thought she saw it. William hardly seemed like anything bothered him at all, least of all her.

She saw him kneel next to the body and push it over. Catherine waited outside, wanting nothing to do with the metallic smell of blood in the air, and breathed slowly as instructed. William pulled back the hood and revealed a young woman's face, her face frozen in an almost comical expression of shock. Her right eye was replaced by a dark hole with sticky contents sluggishly trickling out and down the side of her face. Catherine did not recognize her.

"It's the maid," said William, guessing her train of thought. He glanced at her. "The one who couldn't handle the laundry in time. This explains a lot. She was horrible at ironing my sheets as well."

Catherine swallowed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Her hand was too warm, the same temperature as her face, and she irritably shoved it into the pocket. It was an alien feeling, but she did not care. She wanted William's cool touch. "You knew her?" she asked.

"I knew _of_ her, if that counts." William grabbed the woman by her cheeks, his white, slender fingers digging into her flesh, and observed her from different angles. Catherine's stomach protested and she looked down at her naked feet. "She was an employee for approximately three months, and if my memory recalls correctly—which it always does," he added,"—she was quiet and obedient, keeping a low profile at all times. I didn't suspect a thing."

Catherine shivered. "What if you wouldn't have found me first... I would probably be dead, wouldn't I?"

"Not dead. Worse."

She had not noticed his approach and flinched as he leaned against the balustrade next to her. Their arms touched. Catherine chose not to look at him, her cheeks suddenly reddening. "You would've been captured and taken to who knows where to become who knows what," he went on in a surprisingly calm voice. She even hinted the slightest amusement. "But you're too thin to be used a slave and would most likely end up as a whore. You're beautiful."

Catherine was now blushing furiously in a mixture of both abashment and anger. She stared at him in disbelief. "Excuse me?" _Was that a compliment or an insult?_ she wanted to say.

"It was a compliment." He quirked his eyebrow in challenge. "Sorry for being that abrupt with you but I must insist. You're very beautiful."

His green eyes glittered in content and Catherine doubted that he felt any remorse. She only hoped that the night hid her flushed cheeks as she stammered a reply. "I—I... Thank you." Quickly changing subject, she continued. "So what will happen next?"

"Well," said William and straightened. She saw the hilt of his gun glimmering at his right side. "I would usually have sent a report to the governor by now, but since all of the servants are dead and I cannot neither leave you alone nor take you with me, we'll have to wait until dawn."

"They're... dead?"

He frowned. "Yes," he answered and crossed his arms over his chest. "I reckon you woke of the gunshot as well?" Will looked at her and she quickly nodded. "Likewise. I don't have to see their dead bodies to know that they're dead. I can feel it."

"So we are to wait out the night in a building filled with dead people and then head to the city hall first thing in the morning?" asked Catherine in disgust. "I really do not think it would appropriate..."

"_I_ am going," clarified William. "You'll be on a ship to Boston with the letter to the Campbells and then continue your journey home. To London."

"But I just arrived here!" she exclaimed. "I have so much to do and my father—"

William interrupted her in a harsh voice. "He's dead," he said curtly. "He cannot do what fathers do: protect their little daughters. You're not safe here." Will craned a thumb towards the lifeless woman. "Where she has come from, more will drop in. I don't know why they might want you, but they can't touch you in England. Return."

Catherine opened her mouth to reply but William immediately cut her off again. "I don't want to hear any protests," he said and went indoors. "Tomorrow you'll take the first available vessel en route Boston and then London. Oh, and try to forget your name."

"Why?" she wondered, feeling—not for the first time in William's presence—like a much disobedient child.

He halted and glanced over his shoulder. "You'll travel as a man. It will be much safer and easier to travel with other men if they don't know what sex you are." William motioned for her to follow him and she obeyed. "From now on, you'll go by the name of Adam Meyers. I'll teach you the basic steps on how to wield a sword and a gun, but you'll have to manage the rest on your own."

Catherine was quiet; she did not know how to answer him. Seemingly happy with her silence, William placed a cold hand on her shoulder and patted it reassuringly.

"Let's get some rest now, shall we? You've been through a lot lately and tomorrow will be rough. Come, I'll find a room."


	6. Chapter 6: Amending Identity

**Chapter 6:**  
_Amending Identity_

William didn't know why he had lied to her. It had just felt the most appropriate during the current circumstances. The woman would've of course not made her some whore or slave; the procedure in which she would have been kidnapped had he not been there, was far too risky and complex. Not the duty of a simple slave trader.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he rested his elbow on the armrest, and leaned his cheek on his knuckles. _Why do they want Catherine?_ he mused gravely. _What possibly could she be of worth? Enough to risk the life of one of their precious own?_

William glanced at the sleeping shape on the bed. The thin blankets hinted a crumpled, slim frame and even in the dark he could clearly distinguish the black pool of her long hair around her pale face and neck, the tendrils slithering across the bedclothes like vicious snakes. Her visage was still and blank, and her chest heaved up and down in a slow, regular rhythm. He could hear the faintest sound of her breathing, mixed with the sounds of the lively city.

_Soon to be dawn_, thought Will as he turned his attention towards the window. He had been sitting there ever since Catherine fell asleep, unwilling to let his guard down since of the attack. One never knew if the lonesome Assassins sometimes hired two people or more for the same, important mission. And guessing by the envelope he had found in the unknown woman's bosom, this job was perhaps their most important ever.

William unfurled the small note he held in his left hand and reread its contents for what must be the eighteenth time. The letter was of course encrypted, every character seemingly random, but he had encountered a similar problem before and solved it with relative ease and even amusement. It hadn't been tricky to figure out the pattern, even though it was evident it should be, but it took a while until he came to the final conclusion.

_Infiltrate the position and locate the target. She will be there soon. Take her to the usual place and await further directions. Do _not_ be revealed._

"'...to the usual place'," he murmured quietly. _Where could that be?_

He heard a soft exhale and his gaze immediately shot up from the letter. Looking at the bed, its denizen rolled onto the side, her face towards him, and she sighed again before stilling. William refolded the letter and put it in his chest pocket, his focus fully on the sleeping woman in front of him. He regarded her throughly and her beauty stunned him yet again, but when no longer distracted by the rare color of her eyes, he saw that there was nothing else of notice. She didn't seem extraordinary intelligent, brave or in possession of any other traits but her looks and fortune. And she was so... lifeless. Even when she was angry she was calm and controlled. Miss Porter was unreadable. Deceptive. And very interesting.

_Is she really as detached as she seems to be?_ he wondered silently. _Or is a real person hiding behind those breathtaking eyes?_

* * *

"Get up!"

Catherine could for a moment not remember anything, who she were, where she was or whom the voice belonged to, but as soon as she opened her crusty eyelids and William's handsome face entered her view her memories came rushing back. Her father's death, her return to the inn, the woman...

She blinked away the rest of the sleep. "Are the bodies gone?" she asked immediately, feeling extremely nauseous by the very mentioning of the word "bodies". "I cannot dare to go anywhere with corpses loitering around in the house."

Will was standing by the doorway, leaning against the wood. He snorted lightly and said with his nowadays familiarly stern voice, "Certainly, Miss. There are no terrors lurking here anymore." He raised his left eyebrow. "If not an empty building can be included to the category of 'terrors'."

His tone was mocking and straight out provocative, but she ignored it and unabashedly started straightening her clothes in front of him. Catherine was starting to get used to—even favor—the feeling of them. There was never any worry about if her petticoat had ugly creases when she rose from seated, or if her corset had been tightened enough to accentuate her waist in the most fashionable manner. She felt free in her trousers and shirt, a feeling she was going to savor every second. The thought saddened her, but she would soon return to England with the news of her father's passing. It was not the long, exhausting voyage back or even the loss of everything here that made her sorry about her departure; she would inherit her father's money and reputation no doubt, and everyone, especially her aunt, would demand or beg her off her capital. She would be drained, happily drained since she could not possibly deny her aunt's requests out of pure respect, and would end up as a poor girl again. And there was nothing she could do about it. She would lose it all. Again.

"Catherine?"

She only then realized that William had been calling on her. He frowned as she looked at him and quickly approached her, holding out a loaf of bread in his hand. "Here," he said as he sank down on the bed next to her. Famished, she took it and ate it with joy. "It isn't much, but you better get used to it."

Catherine nodded and swallowed the last bit. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't call me that." He grimaced and to nobody's surprise he was as utterly handsome as always. "I don't want anyone to notice us. Try to stay casual. Talk like a commoner, walk like a commoner."

"Would some, if not all, not recognize your face anyways?" she wondered then blushed, understanding how obvious it sounded. "I—I did not mean it like that—"

"I think you did," he said with a hint of amusement in his green eyes, "but it is alright. Some people do, others don't. You'd be surprised how many who actually cannot recall an angelic face like mine, even if they just saw me walk past."

Catherine looked away. _I bet not many at all_. "What are we to do then?" she asked, hoping desperately that her change of subject would take effect before he could comment her former saying. Her attempt succeeded.

"Well," started Will, "you're definitely going today, no doubt. Off to Boston and then to London. I've already found a ship. And don't try to find your way back here." He lowered his voice and leaned into her. "Because I will keep my eyes on you at all times. Stay in London no matter what."

She swallowed nervously. "Yes."

"Good." He stood up. "You can keep my clothes but you shall be armed as well. And we must cut off that hair of yours."

Catherine nodded. "I understand," she replied resignedly. "I'll try my best."

"Very well." He reached out for her and she gripped his hand as he pulled her to standing. "If there's nothing else you'd like to add, I'd be more than pleased to leave. Let's go, Adam."

It took her a moment extra to remember that he meant her. Catherine nodded again and following the long-legged William, she was led downstairs to the entry of the basement. She tried to forget the fact that all of the servants were rotting somewhere else, dead and mourned for but definitely not by Will, as they descended from the second floor and walked through a long hallway, passing several vacant rooms, a large dining hall with a balcony and a washing room until they reached a door. William found and lit a lantern, unlocked the door and descended again with her walking just behind him, her hand ready to grip the railing if necessary; the steps were very steep and had been unattended for a long time. The staircase to the cellar groaned and creaked like an old, bitter lady as her naked feet brushed its dirty surface and even though William seemed calm enough, she prayed silently that the wood would not yield to their combined weight.

The air was dry and cool, and reaching the floor, she saw that the cellar was filled with what one would usually expect to find in an inn or tavern; gigantic barrels of wine poised on the round side on structures with short wooden legs—thereby easy to access and extract the red venom, she thought—and tall cupboards filled with bedclothes and extra plates. There were also a couple of chests with or without padlocks, crates filled with some stronger liquor and shelves filled with bread and dried meat. William put the lantern on a small table and started rummaging some of the wardrobes propped against the wall furthest from the staircase. He then handed her a pair of rather fresh boots, this time in her size, a brown vest made of robust leather and yellowing white lacing, and a large cap that smelled like dirt and sweat. All of her clothes did. Noticing her dislike, Will shook his head and sighed.

"You'll have to get used to it," he said, observing her from head to toe. "It looks normal, which is good, and you cannot impossibly expect the journey to be like your first one. You're just a boy now."

"I..." she started but let it go; he would not understand her even if she cared to explain. She could do nothing but obey and started dressing. "I was just worrying about the weapons," she said truthfully and looked up at him, her hands busy with braiding her hair tightly to the skull so that her cap would cover most of it.

The light of the candle reflected in his steady gaze and he seemed to understand her. "I don't think you'll find it especially necessary to wield a sword in combat," he said reassuringly and gestured for her to follow him upstairs. Catherine hurried to do as told. "Just remember to keep it clean and ready at all times. Never walk somewhere without a weapon to defend yourself with. The world is a much dangerous place, and I reckon you've learned that lesson enough times already."

"Yes," she replied quietly as they ascended.

He said nothing more. They reached the hallway again and continued through it but to the opposite side where they had first came from, exiting the inn by a heavy door that led them to a small courtyard. It was empty save for another locked chest, square-shaped and the ground was made of stone. A very high, wooden fence with sharpened ends surrounded the small area and a slender tree was resting lazily against it, its branches brushing softly against the ground in harmony with the wind. It was rather peaceful there she thought at first, but when William opened the chest and equipped her with a cumbersome gun and an equally awkward sword, her earlier emotions vanished in an instant. Catherine felt sick.

"I..." Her voice trailed off as Will's sharp gaze drilled into hers with an expression saying: "There's no way out of this." She anxiously gripped the hilt of the short sword and pulled it out of its scabbard. It weighed much less than she thought it would and she swiftly swung it back and forth.

"I see you have no clue what to do," uttered William and grabbed her wrist when she almost hit him. "You think swordsmanship is simple?"

Catherine yanked her hand away from him, brows furrowed. "I do not," she retorted angrily, finally too annoyed with his attitude to keep silent. "And why are you being so rude to me all the time? What exactly have I done you to be rewarded with such fierce antagonism?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said coolly and unsheathed a blade of his own. The sword was tall and slender, and glimmered in the sunlight, the reflecting rays blinding her for a short moment before he lowered it to his side. She looked up at his face and eyes as ruthless but colder than the steel drilled into her mind. "And I'm hardly antagonizing you. If I were to, I rather think you'd be trying to kill me with that sword right now."

"Did you know that your jokes are none much entertaining?"

"I wasn't trying to be funny."

"Then what?"

He raised a black eyebrow. "On what did you just say 'what' at, if I may inquire? I'm always serious, you oughta know that by now."

"All this." Catherine sighed as William looked just as puzzled as before. "Why are you doing all this?"

"Well," he replied quickly and defiantly, his voice cracking like the whip of a brutal coachman."I am after all, a gentleman, and I cannot bear to leave such a young, beautiful woman all to fate. I'm just helping you, that's all."

She felt the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, but years of training and learning had taught her not to do that. Catherine simply sighed again and gesturing at Will, she said, "No, not that. I wonder why you are so awfully rude to me. It's definitely not what a gentleman would do."

William suddenly raised his sword in level with his chin before swinging it in an arc from his right side. She barely caught the movement and flinched as the blade stopped right in front of her nose. "This isn't exactly an exclusive treatment," he whispered.

"So I've noticed," she muttered and held his gaze, trying to subdue the fear that had crept up her back.

Unfazed, William suddenly smirked. "Then there should be nothing else to discuss." She opened her mouth to ask what he meant but he cut her off before she could begin, holding up a dismissive hand. "Don't use your weapons and especially not your sword—God knows how many people you'll cut up by mistake."

"What do you mean?" she exclaimed with irritation.

Will sighed and pulled back his black hair. It stayed in place for only a couple of seconds before falling back across his forehead and the sides of his head. Catherine realized it was the first time she had seen his hair in its dry state and noticed that the hairs curled by the ends; he would probably be even more handsome with a longer hairstyle but she guessed that his work, unfortunately, forced him to cut it rather short.

"You're looking at me quite intensely," noted William dryly and handed her a thick leather belt from the chest before locking it, holding a similar in his other hand. "Is there something on my face?"

Catherine shook her head and blushed. "No, absolutely not," she uttered and copied his movement on how to put on the belt. She tightened the scabbard to her left side and her pistol by her right. William looked like a mirror image of her and she just then realized that he was left-handed. "You're fine."

"Marvelous." He cocked his head towards the door. "Let's move then. And remember to never use your weapons save for a moment of extreme emergency."

"Why?" she inquired as they walked through the inn again, passing the long hallway until they reached the other side.

"Aren't you the talkative one?" muttered William but answered her question nonetheless. "Think of it as an illusion," he said and held up the entrance door.

She gave him a nod of appreciation and exited first. "It's rather impossible for a commoner to see if someone is skilled with weapons or not. Only a truly masterful smith or warrior might, or someone with eyes ruled by a brilliant mind. Such as myself."

The heat of the city slammed against her like a wall and Catherine immediately squinted in the sunlight, holding up a hand to shadow her face. There were less people on the streets than yesterday and she understood that the warmth was discouraging most; her shirt was already starting to stick to her back, humid with sweat, and she felt hot beneath her cap. She had started getting used to William's occasional praises of himself and even found it less annoying with each time. It was typical him.

"And you believe that I'll spoil my disguise if I pull out my sword?" she wondered and looked to her left and right. "Where are we to?"

William led the way once again. She followed. "I don't believe," he replied, "I'm sure of it. You hold a sword like a walking stick but with the sharp point skyward."

"So do you," she answered.

He raised an eyebrow and glanced at her across his shoulder. There was something glimmering at the surface of his eyes, a flicker of doubt perhaps, but whatever emotion it was, it plunged back into the emerald-green depths almost instantly and vanished. His usual stern, slightly bored, slightly amused, and very sarcastic self returned. "Not at all," he said, rounding a corner. He looked ahead of him. "But I wouldn't expect a young brat like you to understand. Oh, we're here."

Catherine exhaled. "Fine," she murmured as she came to halt by William's side. He was looking at a medium-sized building, the walls cream-colored as pastry dough and with tiny windows at the height of her eyes. Will approached the door and knocked on it twice before stepping back and waited. After a moment it opened and revealed a short but slender woman with brown hair and gray eyes. She was young and handsome, with her large, intelligent eyes and smooth, tawny skin. The woman shone up in a smile as she looked at William and Catherine suddenly felt just the tiniest bit jealous.

"Well, well," she said and scrutinized him from head to toe. "You've grown."

William snorted but his tone was soft as he replied. "You've shrunk."

"Bastard," laughed the woman. She spoke like William, quickly and in smooth syllables. Clearly American. "But your honesty is as always much appreciated. What can I help you with this time?"

"What makes you think I only came to ask for assistance?" he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice was so thick with evident sarcasm that Catherine wanted to roll her eyes at him, but that was another habit she had learned to forget. "Maybe I want to visit my favorite girl once in a while."

"Please." The stranger held up a hand. "Save your breath, beautiful. You know I don't go for boys. Break some other poor girl's heart instead."

Catherine's eyes widened. She could not help it. The woman in front of her was—

"At least I tried." Will said halfheartedly and interrupted Catherine mid-thought by putting a hand on her shoulder and brusquely shove her in front of him. "This is a friend of mine. He needs a haircut, if you wouldn't mind."

The woman looked at Catherine like she had not noticed her until then and her eyes narrowed. "That's not a boy."

William moved in the blink of an eye. Catherine was suddenly standing inside the house with a fading pain around her left wrist and was watching Will push the short woman against a wall, gun already aimed against her head. It looked comical, she thought in numb astonishment, not really catching up with the events. The difference between the two heights were ridiculous, William looming over the stranger like an ominous old cathedral. Catherine vaguely noticed that the door behind her slowly closed them in.

Not speaking until the wood and metal hitched back on place, William hissed at the woman. "That was unusually carefree of you, Rose. What are you up to?"

His voice cut through the room like a knife. Sharp, and equally dangerous. The woman, Rose, swallowed nervously, obviously feeling the threat in his voice, and tried to gain some distance between them. "Leave me be!"

William buried the gun deep into the soft flesh of Rose's cheek, holding her neck with his other hand. "You owe me," he told her. "Everything you have right now. It's all thanks to me."

"I've tried to pay you back—" started Rose but William made a disgusted noise.

"And I've taken nothing," he replied, his tone low but deadly. "The only thing I've ever wanted from you was loyalty. Trust." Will let go off her and backed away. "Now tell me what I wanna know."

Rose grimaced as she gasped for air. Her face was flushed red with having her air pipe pressured but she reluctantly obeyed him and sunk down on a chair, caressing her throat and shoulders as she spoke.

"Things are starting to get out of hand," she said and craned her head towards the door. "I'm being watched all the time and I suspect it's them." Rose sighed. "I'm sorry, Will, but if they confront me, I'll have to tell everything. They have too much power here."

Catherine glanced at Will. She did not understand a thing the woman said but he seemed not of the same opinion. He stood expressionless, observing Rose's every movement with a cold look, and replied in his usual, stern tone, still wielding his gun. "So you're telling me you fear them more than us?"

_What is __he talking about? The Spaniards?_ Catherine remained silent, her eyes darting between the two others in the room.

"Yes. They're on to me." Rose put her fingers against her temples and pressed hard while closing her gray eyes in frustration. "I'll help you this once, but after that we're done. I won't risk my identity again." She grinned unhappily. "Not even for you, beautiful."

"Done," replied William and when Rose looked at him in disbelief he simply shrugged. "Why not? It sounds reasonable," he went on. "There's no point helping either side if they'll both result in your own demise. Perfectly acceptable."

Rose wore the confused expression of someone who thought he or she was perhaps being made fun of, her brows furrowed in worry and fashioning a thin-lipped half-smile on her plump lips. "Really?"

It was odd how much she seemed to fear William, thought Catherine, both having behaved so warm-heartedly—like old friends—before. She saw it in Rose's gray eyes, the flickering wariness in them.

"Indeed," said Will and gestured towards Catherine. "This one last time. Then you're done."

Rose soaked her lips and glanced at Catherine. "She'll be a tough one to conceal, with those eyes," she said and rose to standing. "There's this thing you should know, William—"

"Just handle it," sneered Will. "Weren't you the one bragging about how you could make even the governor look and behave like a street dog? Get to it."

Rose glared at him. "Fine," she snarled as she turned her full focus at Catherine with a sweet smile. "Feel free to take a seat, darling. This will take some time."

* * *

William could almost not recognize her as she finished drying her hair in a towel. The ebony river of her hair pooled around her boots, no longer flowing down in large curls down her back, and her new haircut was short to her skull, giving her a much more youthful and disheveled look. Rose had complained during the whole session, fuzzing and groaning over Catherine's long hair, but she had done a good job in the end. Although he could still see Catherine as Catherine, the beautiful woman with extraordinarily intense lilac eyes, nobody else would. They would see a scoundrel in her place, an overconfident, inexperienced boy hungering for adventures and women. It was perfect.

He yawned. It had been awfully boring to just sit and watch the transformation go on, and so he had taken the liberty of falling asleep on a chair. Even though he no longer trusted Rose, he trusted her emotions; alas, the pitiful side of such a cold-blooded murderess. She would not try to kill him in front of the so very innocent Catherine. She was too good for that.

Rose had once been an Assassin, an expert in intelligence and infiltration, and belonged to their holy Creed, but betrayed them for her own interests. Never completely siding with either side but tiptoeing on the fine line in between, she was considered a rather unreliable source of information, but after he had saved her from hanging in the gallows and gotten her away from New York after an undercover mission gone terribly wrong three years ago, she had pledged her loyalty to him. Even though it had been a long time since she left the killing behind her, she knew what was going in whole Havana at all times, and thus became a very useful tool at his disposal. Her vital intel was one of the reasons why he had climbed the ranks so quickly, her good-humored personality and flirty cheerfulness just being a plus. She was the closest thing to a friend he had ever had, but that no longer seemed to be the case.

_I'll have to deal with her_, he thought lazily and stifled another yawn. _She knows too much. Let's just wait for the right opportunity..._

"Maybe I'm not attracted to women only. Look at that boy—all manners and innocence!" exclaimed Rose excitedly, pinching Catherine's cheeks. "And those eyes; I cannot bear to be torn away from you, darling!"

"That's enough," ordered Will and stood up. He grabbed the confused and embarrassed Catherine by her shoulders and separated her from the older woman. "Thanks a lot, Rose. That'll be all."

She frowned. "Well, there's still something I've got to discuss with you," she said and looked meaningly at Catherine.

_Interesting_.

William followed her gaze and looked at Miss Porter who seemed completely at loss. She pulled at the ends of her short, tousled hair with a puzzled look across her pale features. "It's important," he heard Rose whisper. "Let's go talk just the two of us, shall we?"

_Perfect_.

* * *

Rose thought she saw him smile but when she blinked, his face was as expressionless and at the same time semi-scornful as always. Will's brows furrowed as he looked back at her and she realized that she had been staring. "Getting bottled up, are we?" he asked mockingly.

She snorted and turned, waving with her hand for him follow. "Just come."

"If you insist."

When she saw Catherine move as well in the corner of her left eye, Rose hastily glanced at the young lady over her shoulder. "No, just ol' Will and me. It's a private matter," she smiled. "Excuse us for just a moment."

"Oh," said Catherine and awkwardly halted. "Of course. Take your time."

Will made a strangled noise. "Don't be so damned polite all the time," he said. "No disguise in the world, no matter how good, will fool an attentive observer. Now, when I return, I want you to dictate every curse you've ever heard." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm expecting something good, Adam."

Rose rolled with her eyes and pulled Will into an adjacent room,—her bedroom, as a matter of fact—closing the door behind them. She stared him down furiously; it was all an act, a false play, but an action she was forced to take.

"What the hell is this?" she hissed. "I thought nobody would come after me. That was what you said."

Will looked about himself; he seemed particularly interested in a painting that hung on the eastern wall and approached it with his left hand resting casually behind his back. "I did. And I'm never wrong," he replied coolly.

"Then what's this supposed to me? Why do they know me?" Rose closed her hand around the hilt of her blade, the weapon hidden in a secret pocket in her skirt.

He regarded the scenery thoroughly, his back turned against her. She almost wanted to laugh; it was all too easy. Just one throw, aimed at his backbone, would incapacitate him and render him immovable. Then the rest would come and—"How should I know? Perhaps someone here was a bit too confident in her own abilities."

She paled, suddenly understanding why Will was being so calm. He knew, and had known all along. Tiny beads of sweat pearled on her forehead as she tried to deny it. "What—what are you trying to say?"

"Come on. You didn't think I knew about your speciality when I helped you? 'Intelligence and infiltration'. So obvious."

Rose's chin dropped. Real anger was flowing through her veins now. "You—"

Will whipped around, too quick for her to react, and the force of his throw made her stagger a step backwards. She glanced down at her body and saw a long, slim dagger protruding from her abdomen and red, hot blood pouring out of the deep wound. The pain petrified her and she stiffly started falling to the floor when Will nimbly caught her and lowered her, gently, to the floor.

"You—" Blood filled her mouth and she spat it out. She wanted to pull free from him but she was powerless. "You—you knew—"

He hushed at her, a beautiful smile playing on his lips. "Of course," he whispered and pushed aside a lock of hair from her cheek. "It took a while before I figured it out, but not much."

Rose opened her mouth to speak but she found herself mute, only more thick, bitter liquid filling her throat. Will's smile widened, and it was for the first time in their three years of false friendship she understood that he was being sincere in his joy. Her whole mind rioted in disgust and she forced herself to choke just to be able to formulate a last, comprehendible sentence before dying.

"You're... a monster," she said as venomously as she could and stared Will straight into his eyes. She had always known him as cold-hearted, but she could barely believe how amused he actually seemed. "Not... even a... man."

"Don't worry," he replied and leaned in to brush a kiss against her forehead. Rose screamed in her mind. "I always knew you were in love with me. That's what made it all at least ten times more fun. You never fooled me, Rosalyn Hawthorn. But at least you were interesting. For a while."

Will dropped her and straightened up, adjusting his shirt where perhaps her numb, uncontrollable hands had gripped the fabric. She couldn't remember. Rose's vision was quickly filling with countless of black dots and the beats of her slowing heart was the only thing she heard as her eyes closed and her breathing ceased to function. Pain and hatred shot through her like poison but she knew she could do nothing.

Nothing but die to the man she had once sworn she would never love.

* * *

"You remember everything?"

Catherine sighed. "Yes, mother."

William ruffled up her hair; a typical enough behavior for a brother or friend, she thought and tried to stay still. He noticed her uncomfortableness and snorted lightly.

"Relax," he murmured as they passed two fishermen arguing loudly about where one could find the finest specimens of the dangerous great white shark. One claimed it was in the northwest and the other in the southwest. William seemed to be wanting to correct them on one thing or another but then chose to ignore them. "Just don't try to talk much. Or climb the mast. Or rig the railings. Or dive overboard. Or—"

"Thank you," interrupted Catherine with an angry frown. "I feel so much safer now."

She had never thought sarcasm was her thing, but Will seemed to appreciate it. He smirked and patted her on the shoulder. Another brotherly thing, observed Catherine.

"No problems."

"Definitely not."

"But beware of the—"

Catherine sighed, holding up her hands in surrender. "I forfeit. You're the king and ruler of stubbornness and malice. Congratulations, my Lord."

"Your majesty," corrected Will dryly. "Or 'Your royal majesty.' Whatever you prefer, but I must say I enjoyed the title of 'God' rather more."

They stepped onto a wharf that led them to a modest-looking ship, slightly smaller and with a more slender structure than the first vessel that she had been aboard. It was already starting to cast off, its crew busy with seemingly endless of amounts of rope and sail. Catherine allowed herself to smile; William had scolded her trice for calling the ship "it" instead of "she". She could not understand what the point was. It was just a large boat.

"I've paid the captain to keep silent about you, so if you keep a low profile you'll manage," said Will when they reached the ship. Some of the sailors eyed them suspiciously but nobody could glare as intensively as William. "Stay alone. None of them can be trusted."

Catherine swallowed nervously as she looked at the ship. "Understood," she said. "Anything else I need to know?"

He pushed her towards the ship. She glared at him. "Not at all. Just remember what I've told you," he answered and made a polite but sarcastic bow and salute, his dazzling green eyes beaming with amusement beneath the darkness of his hair. "This is farewell, Adam. Good luck."

Catherine was not able to reply before William sharply turned around and walked away. He did not even throw a glance over his shoulder and she saw his tall, lean frame quickly disappear into the city. She was left alone. Again.

"Oi, lad! You goin'?"

She felt abandoned by Will, but shrugged it off. He had helped her enough already, more than any of her so called friends back in London had achieved during years of amity. It had been very honorable of him, she thought as she stepped onto the ship, using a long wooden plank as bridge from the wharf to an opening in the thick gunwale. Very honorable.

A short man approached her, his appearance English. She guessed it was the captain, judging by the large, triangular hat he was wearing and the adorned compass hanging at his side. He did not seem especially rich, his clothes dirty and well-worn, but then again neither did she.

The man scrutinized her and she prayed fervently that her disguise would work. She was still rather hesitant that something as simple as a haircut and new clothes would do, but it did. He looked skeptically at her arms but nonetheless held out a hand to greet her.

"Name's Pete, lad," he said, his voice hoarse and rough. "So you're the one to Boston and then London?"

Recognizing the movement, Catherine put her hand in his and shook it. It was the strangest thing she had ever done and she almost blushed in abashment. "Yes, sir."

"I see," he replied and looked her up and down again. "Don't cause any problems, boy, and stay out of all the hard work. I won't receive all the money until you reach London and only if you're unharmed." His eyes darted to her arms again. "I'm serious. Keep out of the way."

"Yes, sir," she repeated and averted her gaze.

"Obedient one and well-mannered. You some runaway?"

Catherine shook her head. "Nothing like that, sir, and I'd rather not speak about it."

"Very well," said the man with a shrug. "We all have our secrets. What about name then?"

She steadied herself as she answered and tried to sound as casual as possible. Sweat trickled down her back; this would be her first lie in an endless row of lies. Hopefully, it would not sound as awful as it did in her mind.

"Adam."


	7. Chapter 7: A Twist of Fate

**Chapter 7:**  
_A Twist of Fate_

The air was thickening with humidity and gray, heavy clouds filled the sky. A storm was gathering at watching distance from Nassau and Mary Read was curiously observing the happening elapse from a rather safe and dry place in an almost vacant tavern, her cheeks slightly blushed with fever and lips dry with dehydration. It didn't matter how many times she forced down something to drink or eat; the heat ravished her from inside out, siphoning her of every nutrition, and left her empty.

"Another pint, Kidd?"

Mary shook her head and sluggishly showed the barman her mug. "Half full," she replied and put it back on the bar table. Some of the golden liquid whipped out and landed on her hand. It was obviously more than just half full. Annoyed, she snarled, "I'm fine, Sammy. Don't bother me."

Even though she acted as casually as she could, glancing at Sam in the corner of her left eye she saw that his eyes widened in surprise before he turned away with a shrug. _Damn it_, she swore inwardly and pressed her lips together. _The wound is getting worse._

Thunder suddenly roared in the distance. She instinctively gazed out through a window and seeing a fully darkened sky, she felt a sting of sympathy for the poor sods at sea as she sipped her beverage in quietness. She missed the feeling of her pendant and grasped after it, even though she knew that her fingers would claw at nothing but skin.

_Hurry up, Kenway_, she grumpily thought as the rain started falling. _I can't believe I'm even considering this, but I'm counting on you._

* * *

In a most unusual fashion, Catherine Porter was at peace. She no longer felt nauseous as she had done during her premiere at sea and neither was she walking like a drunk, but she quickly came to the conclusion that there was nothing really to do as she sat leaned against the gunwale on top deck.

Her hair cut short, nobody expected her to be a woman, but she looked even younger now. And as been told by the captain, Pete—he had refused to tell her his full name and stubbornly insisted that she should call him Pete or in worst case "captain", although she kept to "sir" with equal obstinacy—she kept out of the way from everyone. She did not work as the others did but she neither ate as much as they, and she comforted herself some extra with the thought that they worked for a wage while she had payed for the trip. Or well, William had.

There were occasional glances filled with contempt and annoyance, but they were also mixed with understanding as they regarded her. It bothered her to be pitied at, because it reminded her of the treatment she received when her father had left her at her aunt, but she knew it was better that way. Even though she was as tall or even taller than some of the sailors, they were at least twice her size in width. Not even with both of her hands she would be able to bracelet captain Pete's upper arm.

Catherine was slightly bored, having done absolutely nothing during their presently second day aboard the _Lion's Pride_—the ship had made port twice during the journey thus far—but she was in tandem very much bedazzled by the sea. She felt a strange attraction to the ocean, a strong connection of some sort, and often found herself staring intensely into the watery deep. Embarrassing enough, she had to admit she almost fell overboard a couple of times as her mind lodged in a reverie while she was looking down at all the water.

As much as the sea was able to shackle her mind, Catherine was equally fascinated by everything between the endless bobbing of the waves, to the thin line at the horizon where the sky grazed the edge of all the stretched out dark blue. There were of course sights of land, both resolutely overgrowing islands lush with thick vegetation and empty, small ones consisting of only white-yellowish, sun-warmed sand and an occasional palm tree—the latter slowly disappearing with the flow of the sea—and settlements of different origins and sizes. She recognized ships and fortresses waving different flags of Spain, Britain, France and Portugal in the direction with the wind, and small fishing villages of unknown nationality where dark-skinned children were playing in the sand or by the water.

Being at sea also helped her to think. She would miss it here, she immediately realized. The colors, the smells, the people... even William. He had strangely enough managed to lighten the burden of her father's death—

_No, he was murdered._

Anger filled her senses. She immediately gripped the charm through the rough material of her shirt. The gold was cool to her touch, almost like it wanted to soothe her fury, but she only got angrier. She did not know what this Mary Read had to do with the assassination of her father, but she would find out. Catherine had constructed a plan of escape in Boston, but destiny was already bending in her favor as the captain shouted at her.

"Oi, lad!"

Catherine roused from her thoughts and threw a glance across her shoulder. She was met with the worried gaze of captain Pete, who was standing at the helm of the ship, next to the ship's quartermaster, John, and pointed eastward.

John was a mystery to her. She had for sure thought that she already had witnessed everything a man could possess that a woman would despise in William, but John was almost worse. He was perhaps five years her senior, stood the same height as her and had brown, dull hair and rough features. A thin line marked his throat over the Adam's apple, but other than that he looked not too ugly. It was his attitude she scorned. Compared to William's sarcasm-coated everything, John made a big display of his genuine hostility against her. She and Will were at least able to be polite about it, even though she never had been made so frustrated at a person before. And things were slightly different with him...

She had clearly felt John's dislike for her ever since day one on the _Lion_, and therefore avoided him as much as she could. It could be everything from an angry glare to outright comments about her "dead weight" and even insults. Nobody seemed to beg to differ, and she slowly grew to even hate him.

Her eyes locked briefly with John's brown eyes before she followed the captain's motion; dark, almost black clouds were unfurling with rapid speed across the sky and she could already sense the air thickening. A storm was coming, and right their way.

"One hell of a tempest!" called captain Pete, capturing the attention of everyone aboard. Catherine's as well. "Almost seems like Tristan himself conjured it!"

_Tristan_. The name felt familiar to her ear, yet she knew she had never known anyone with that name.

"Orders, captain?" asked John. "I don't suppose you suggest us to ride straight through it?"

Catherine slid down from the gunwale and hurried to them, an unexplainable curiosity claiming the better side of her. "Who is this 'Tristan', sir?" she wondered snappishly, thereby interrupting the captain's reply. "The name of the ocean?"

John quirked an eyebrow and seemed inclined to retort with a venomous answer, but captain Pete put a large hand on his quartermaster's shoulder. "Just a boy," he murmured and turned to Catherine. His eyes were calm. "It's nothing a sailor really should be talking about," he told her. "I'm probably already damned enough having joked so much about him."

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Catherine. There was something about the name... she had to know what it was. "Is Tristan a real person?" She paused and hesitated before continuing. "A... pirate?"

He laughed, but the sound was void of any happiness. "No," replied the captain and then shrugged. "Or he might've been a human once. Who knows these things, really."

"Then what?" Catherine was growing impatient.

Fear filled Pete's eyes and he quickly tried to blink them away. "He's the devil of the sea," he almost whispered. "A legend, yes, but a true one."

"Everyone has heard these tales," said John abruptly, his eyes skeptical as he looked at Catherine. "How comes you haven't?"

"John," warned the captain and held up a hand. "Not everyone that has heard them believes in then or cares to remember. Only sailors and other superstitious fools think Tristan exists."

"So you say you don't believe in him, sir?" asked Catherine in confusion. "But what—"

"I never said I don't believe in him, lad," interrupted Pete. "I do. And that puts me in the section of sailors, but also superstitious fools."

Catherine frowned. She could not believe the fear someone could have for such nonsense. "I thought it was superstition that sailors were so superstitious, sir," she said haughtily. "There can impossibly be some kind of 'devil' roaming the seas. It does not make any sense."

If she would have been standing just an inch closer to them, she would have been hit by the sword that all of a sudden lashed out from John's hand. Catherine was not able to react and had she been still for another second, she might have been wounded, but fortunately enough Pete knew a thing or two from past experiences with his quartermaster and could quickly disarm the man before grabbing him by his collar. The captain was already a huge man, but seeing him easily swing John to the deck renewed Catherine's respect for his strength and doubled it. Twice.

"Haven't I told you to work on that temper of yours? What is your problem?"

Catherine noticed that the crew had frozen in their place and were watching her. She tried to ignore the spectators and swallowed nervously. The captain was glaring at John in tense silence until the latter got up on his feet and charged away, but not without giving Catherine a dark look. She instinctively took a step back and did not relax until he disappeared down the lower decks muttering curses. Pete sighed heavily and gripped the helm of the Lion's Pride before calling out orders.

"To Nassau! It's the closest harbor from here," shouted captain Pete, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "The storm is at least bringing with some good gales, men. Let's get to safety!"

The sailors stood still for another couple of seconds before quickly issuing their captain's command. Catherine watched as they worked and the ship soon turned starboard, a strong downwind filling the sails as it pushed them through the water in high speed. She would have expected it to be cold, but it was pleasant with a cool breeze against her back in the otherwise moist air.

"Keep away from John, lad."

Catherine looked at the captain with a puzzled expression written on her face. "Excuse me, sir?"

Pete sighed again. "I know you're young, Adam, and that you don't understand much about pain, but that'll change soon enough."

It was the first time he spoke to her by name and although she perceived it as a token of respect, she frowned, her violet eyes narrowing. "I've had my troubles, sir," she replied honestly and her mind forming an image of her dying father. Catherine shook her head and pushed the mental picture out of her focus. "But that has nothing to do with this. Your quartermaster has been outrageously rude to me all the time and I have never even once retorted. I have done him no wrong."

"He's like that to everyone, lad." Pete swung the steering wheel slightly to the left then back again, his forehead creased in frustration and focus. "Like an angry beast, just inches away from clawing at one, but an excellent helmsman. Do you know how I met him?"

Catherine tried hard not to roll with her eyes; she had realized that this was the way that he preferred to speak. "If you'd wish to explain, sir," she replied gracefully.

He nodded. "I picked him up from the sea after a horrible storm," he started. "He was barely alive and when the barber had taken a good look at him, he thought for sure that John would die in a couple of hours. He had a gruesome-looking cut across his back from some kind of a hook and he spat out everything we tried to give him. It seemed truly hopeless and so I did not even bother taking him to the closest port; I had some goods to retrieve up in Boston and time was running short."

"But he lives," said Catherine in amazement. "How?"

"Who knows?" replied the captain and shrugged. "He survived first the fever that I thought he would succumb to and then the wound started healing without any problems at all. The barber was completely stunned with his swift recuperation and so was I. Less than a week passed and he was conscious and able to eat. Even walk. I've never seen anything similar in my whole life."

_The wound must have been only superficial_, she could imagine William say as he arched his left eyebrow in doubt and crossed his slender arms over his chest. _And all sickness depart if the bearer is strong enough to withstand them for a longer time. The body is more tenacious than one would expect._

"When I thought he was ready to talk, I asked him about what happened." Pete's voice grew dark. "He said his name was John Mason and that he had been a crew member on a vessel journeying from Kingston to New York before she ran into a hostile force." He suddenly shivered, even though the cold had not seemed to bother him until then. "I don't want to scare your youthful, untarnished soul with all the details he told me, but I'll at least mention that John said that their demise came from absolutely nowhere and that he could see neither crew nor captain aboard it."

Catherine frowned. "But ships are humongous; how come nobody saw it, sir?" she asked.

"I forget you don't know the legends," murmured Pete then raised his voice to shout an order before turning back to her. The wind was gaining in strength and speed, and as she peered past the captain's generous form, she saw that the storm had drawn closer.

"She comes with the mist and even though she requires no crew to be controlled, she obeys nobody else than him," continued Pete. "The ship belongs to Tristan, lad, if you didn't already understand it, and it is said she was once Britain's greatest man-of-war—the pride of the navy—before the goddamn devil claimed her. He then renamed her, giving the majestical behemoth a name as glorious and worthy as the rest of her: _Invincible_."

_She comes with the mist_. The sentence repeated itself over and over again in her mind. Catherine barely listened to the rest of what captain Pete said. Surely it could be a coincidence, she thought, that there was a mist in Havana when Mr. Dyce and his crew were attacked. Because why would this supposed legend even exist? John clearly possessed no mind to be able to trust in, and even though Pete was a good man, he was a sailor; they were superstitious and foolish believers as nobody else. Tristan and the _Invincible_ was just a story. Why believe in such rubbish?

"Adam?"

She snapped back to reality and glanced at captain Pete. "What is it, sir?"

"I don't think you heard the finish of my story," he replied, raising his eyebrows. "Or did you?"

Catherine blushed. "No, excuse me, sir, I... I got lost in thought."

"You know you tend to do that rather often? Daze out?" He looked bemusedly at her. "What is going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing. Or well, I'm thinking a lot, sir."

Pete seemed like he wanted to develop the subject further when a blinding bolt of light suddenly soared over their heads and shattered the sky in hundreds of different spectrums. Catherine thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and would probably have wandered off on another daydream had captain Pete not interrupted her mid-thought.

"With these winds it feels like the devil himself is breathing down my back!" he laughed. "We're just about to reach Nassau. Hold tightly to every penny, lad, because if the wrong person finds out the wrong things about you, you might end up dead by the end of the night." Her eyes widened and he roared again in laughter. "I'm joking," he said and she exhaled in relief. "You'll be dead in less than a minute. So will you listen to the end of John's story again?"

Catherine tried to shrug off the fear but obviously failed as Pete gawked at her expression again. "Erm, certainly, sir," she uttered. She told herself he was joking yet again, but felt deep down that he was not. "What happened?"

"Since you're so bored by details, I'll cut it short for you, but only because this may touch you personally," he said and his smile turned grim. "Remember when I told you that John saw neither crew nor captain? Well, things get a bit fuzzy from then in the story, but he claims that he later on saw the legend in person. And what I know, is that John is the only one who have seen the devil in person and survived, so nobody can prove him wrong. But I would've believed him nonetheless. The look in his eyes when he spoke of _him_..."

_Tristan_. "And what exactly does it have to do with me?" asked Catherine, in her curiosity so distracted that she skipped all proper forms of politeness. There was a point why Pete was dragging on it, and she did not like it at all.

"John couldn't recall the devil's appearance in detail or much at all," he replied calmly. "But he could remember the bastard's eyes. 'Beautiful and intense' he said to me. 'Sharper than a knife and with a purer, and more enchanting glow than gold'."

"So they were honey-colored?" stated Catherine with a mixed expression of irritation and relief. She had thought the conversation would end in a more ominous and mysterious way, perhaps that they were red like blood or white like the moon. But that would have sounded like a typical ghost story. Perhaps this legend had an interesting view after all.

Pete shook his head and his smile instantly vanished. "No, no, they glimmered _like_ gold. That's the reason why John hates you—because he very much does, lad," he added as Catherine's jaw hung slack at the not very surprising truth at all. She just reacted that way because his sometime too prompt way of speaking astonished her. "When he saw you, he saw him. Or in fact, when he saw your eyes, he saw him."

Catherine's whole body stiffened in fear, her jaw clinging shut. Her mind went blank like a fresh, unsullied sheet of paper and she stammered. "Y–you cannot possibly mean—"

"I do, lad, and the stories says the same," he interrupted. A weariness clung to his already aged, rough features, and made him look twice as old. His eyes were grave but also sad, and he finished in a low whisper as he leaned into her. "Tristan's eyes are famous for their most dazzling violet hue—just like yours."

* * *

**Sometime after the ****_Lion's_**** departure from Havana**

A man clad in the simplest of robes was impatiently pacing back and forth on one of the many wharfs at the large port of Havana. The sky above him was dark save for tiny speckles of golden stars that all seemed to be glimmering with twice as much effort to light up the unusually black night. The pale moon was hiding behind clouds and emitted only a sparse glow across the water, granting it a ghostly reflection. The air was crisp, almost chilly, and the when the man huffed, his hot breath came out as the faintest smoke.

The unknown man's strides were fast-paced and his shoulders tense, thus the feeling that he was waiting for someone who was late for an appointment. He appeared to be too busy brooding in gloomy thoughts as he didn't even brace himself for the suddenly strong gust of wind that swept in from the water. His hood flew back, revealing a dull, common face with boring eyes and disheveled brown hair, dirty from not washing it in days, but not too dirtier than necessary to evade any attention. He looked none too special, more of a normal civilian, a man worried about what new complaints his wife would utter about their new neighbors, than a shady figure standing idly by the docks at night, but yet here he was waiting for someone. Or something.

"You're here."

The man spun around and saw a tall shape entering his view. He hadn't even heard him approaching and shivered involuntarily. _Don't be afraid of him. He needs you. And defy the cold; he brings it with his every stride._

The other man was dressed completely in black with a hood over his head and it would have been hard to spot him had he not been covering his face beneath a shining ivory-made mask. The guise fully hid his visage, the bone shaped as a blank, emotionless face, but the common-looking, unhooded man knew nonetheless who he was.

_Or well, he could be anyone._

He quickly made a deep bow towards the disguised man and placed his left hand clenched in a fist against the right part of his chest. "Master," he replied immediately, his voice clearly revealing the respect he felt for the man. Or perhaps it was admiration. "You called me. Of course I came."

"Good. How did it go for the lady Assassin?"

"Perfectly according to your plans, my lord," answered the unmasked man. His legs were quaking with protest in his very much uncomfortable position, but he had since long learned better than to show weakness in front of his superior. The white scar across the bulge of his throat was evidence enough and a memory he would rather have forget. "She died, exactly as you said she would. I didn't even have to interfere. The captain was far more cold-hearted than I thought; he even killed the other woman as well."

"Don't take people for granted," snapped suddenly the masked man. The curled man in front of him flinched at his sharp tone. At the sight of the man's terror, he relaxed and held up a reassuring hand. "Don't fret, you'll learn eventually. I'm glad you don't mind the killings, but I'm afraid more need to die. Two Assassins in Kingston, another one lurking at Nassau and a big-named Templar from New York is here. And John—"

"Don't say that name!" shouted the brown-haired man and his gaze shot up from the dirty wood. The numb moonlight lit his brown, widened eyes and gave him a look of mad ecstasy. "You promised!"

His voice cracked. The other man calmly backed away but held his focus fixed on his subordinate's hands. If the poor man would twitch even the slightest towards his rusty weapons, he would not even hesitate blowing the fool's head to smithereens; he was already gripping his expensive, posh flintlock gun and calculated the aim.

"I did indeed make a mistake," he admitted slowly, his voice echoing back beneath the ivory. He did not like wearing the mask but it was the best way to protect his identity. "I'll correct myself. _Martin_."

Martin's tense muscles slackened and he returned to bowing. "Master?"

He sure is of use... but his constantly swinging mood is starting to tug on my patience. Had he been pretty or a woman I would have gladly consented... but nay.

"My lord?" asked Martin. "Is everything alright?"

_You should be well aware that I disappear sometimes, as much as you adore me._ The disguised man shook his head and although his fingers itched to pull back his hair, he knew better than to reveal such an attribute of his total appearance. He sensed the fear pouring out of Martin's body and chuckled inwardly. _Poor soul. I'll tear it apart as soon as I'm done with him._

"Master?" Martin was growing more and more nervous. "Is every—"

"I'm fine," he answered in a neutral tone. "Continue as planned. Await further instructions. The likes." He allowed himself to smile behind the guise. "Let's see what the Assassins and the Templars will do when _I_ enter the stage."

Martin swallowed nervously; it made the scar dance in an almost comical way. For a second the masked man thought he could see it shape into a wide grin. "And the girl? She with the eyes? Won't she be a problem?"

"Why would she?" retaliated the other man. When Martin did not reply, he shrugged. "I appreciate your thinking and your concern is highly amiable—"the brown eyes lighted up with fanatic joy"—but it is really not necessary." He made a dramatic pause and directed his glance elsewhere from his underling's gleaming eyes of adoration. _Weak minds like this are so easy to break, to rip into pieces_, he absently thought and continued, "She'll be just fine. I just need to push some things in motion. A twist of fate. After that, she'll manage mostly on her own."

His tone was smooth, but Martin could clearly notice the dark humor behind his master's words. It unnerved him, but he tried not to show his fear. "Understood, my lord," he said. "Is there anything else you would have me do?"

_Slowly carve out your eyeballs with your fingers, then push them into your mouth and swallow them. Whole. _"No. You may leave."

Martin stiffly hurried away, his cold hands clawing after the rough brim of his hood until they finally found the dirtied material. He pulled it over his head and quickly vanished into the city's vivid nightlife. The man with the ivory mask sunk back into the shadows he had come from with a cold but content smile across his thin lips. The men disappeared without leaving even the slightest trace of their presence.

_Gentlemen, take your seats. In my world, you're all the same, no matter if you are an Assassin or a Templar. Weak, pathetic and puny, too busy with your so-called feud to care about any internal damages. Vicious, unrefined and savage as dogs, all of you, in fact no gentlemen or ladies at all. Nevertheless, I'm here to show you what happens when a single man thwarts all of your dreams and goals without even raising his finger._

_The game has begun. Choose your moves wisely._


	8. Chapter 8: Black Flag

_Author's Note:_

_I beg of pardon for the unusually long time it took me to finish this chapter; I just had a lot to do IRL. Felt as well some __lack of inspiration so to motivate me, I'd love some good feedback and response. Also, got an awesome idea for a fanfic about ACIII, so lemme know if that's something you'd read._

_Thank you all for reading._

* * *

**Chapter 8:**  
_Black Flag_

They arrived at Nassau through a shower of merciless rain that assaulted them indefinitely. The tailwind was gone and Catherine could only vaguely distinguish the port and the settlement further inward land as it all lay depressed in the total gray haze of the violent downpour. At first glance, Nassau seemed like a poor, broken city filled with beggars and deserters, and by the reluctancy in captain Pete's eyes, she knew that her observation had been accurate. The Lion's Pride fitted ill amongst the other vessels as it slid along side surprisingly sturdy-looking wharf, and many of the crew hesitated a couple of seconds extra before leaving the halting ship. Catherine waited for a reply at Pete's side, next to the steering wheel, and took comfort in suddenly seeing a fortress uphill. There would be soldiers here, she thought reassuringly. What could there really be to fear?

The captain's forehead was creased in worry and concentration. It was a miracle that his brown tricorn remained on its place in the howling gales. He finally let go off the helm, muttering curses that even a sailor would hesitate to use, but not until she had repeated her question for what would now be the twentieth time.

"Why did you decide to take me with, sir? Pardon me, but you obviously seem uncomfortable."

Pete shrugged. "I accepted the contract," he replied with calm through the noise of the wind. "And I needed the money. Your friend sure is a rich person."

"Is money more worth for you than safety?" she asked in a hushed, angry voice, even though she knew that the crew awaiting their captain on the bridge could impossibly hear. She also tried to subdue her annoyance, knowing very well why the subject took at her heart. Captain Pete's words echoed those of her father's when he had told her of his story after his return to London.

_"I accepted a contract, sweetheart. We needed the money, or we would have perished as mere beggars." He gently cradled her in his lap and embraced her tightly, lips kissing the crown of her head. She noticed that he smelled of a different fragrance and also realized that he no longer wore his wedding ring. "We're fine now, darling. Life will only become better from now."_

Catherine had wanted to scream at him. Shout every indecent word she knew of and push him away. But she had been too soft and her longing for her father too great; she had quietly obliged to his soothing tone and sweet caressing and fallen asleep in his arms. Even as an adolescent she had understood the gravity of money and the fragile balance between fortitude and greed. But she would no longer hesitate to voice her opinion.

"There's surely nothing to worry about, lad," said Pete confidently and patted her on the shoulder. She almost slipped on the watery-drenched deck as they walked over onto the wharf. "It's never good to be too suspicious and especially not if you're a sailor. Like me. You would never be able to live life at sea then."

Catherine knew that her skepticism was evident on her face but decided not to reply. Although it wounded her pride to admit that an uncanny interest had awoken in her mind for Tristan, a petty legend of some sort, she acknowledged it nonetheless. Things had gone too far to regard coincidences as mere coincidences any longer. That she and a ghost shared the same eye color was strange enough at it sounded; she was also astonished by the fact that Pete had made a deal with William, a man she considered close enough to impersonate the devil as one could get. Sure he was handsome as few, but that only made him thus more dangerous.

"Just remember one thing, lad." Captain Pete's friendly gaze suddenly turned hard as steel as he drilled his eyes into hers. Catherine gallantly stood her ground, the wind whipping her short, wet hair about. "Tristan could be the conqueror of all sea, a terrifying presence on the oceans and a ruler of all, but he isn't. He's satisfied with being a ghost story, but even then he strikes fear and cowardice in most sailors."

"You, sir, belong to the latter, I suppose?" she propounded defiantly. "A coward?"

"Indeed," he replied without shame. His crew nodded in agreement and she sighed. "But that has nothing to do with what I want to have said. Do you know why he isn't all that publicly renowned? Why he prefers to stay in the shadows?"

"Why?" she wondered sarcastically, tiring of the captain's way of speaking. It gave a deeper meaning to his words, yes, but it was awfully long-stretched; not at all like the familiar Londoner's curt manners.

Pete snorted. "Lad, he doesn't have to prove to anyone how powerful he really is. When a man has the ability to claim something, he makes a huge point when refraining from it. That's what defines spiritual strength." They finally started walking towards land. "I hadn't heard about him in what must be twenty years, when he singlehandedly demolished two man-of-wars just outside Britain, until I met John rather recently. There must be a reason to why he has appeared now."

Catherine struggled to stay indifferent. A laughter was dangerously close to make heed and she quickly pinched the skin on her forearm, hoping desperately that the pain would distract her mind. "Right," she uttered. "And this was a wise advice for me to remember, because...?"

"Learn from it, Adam." Pete led them through the small port—Catherine by her newfound place next to him and the rest of the men following behind them—toward a building that seemed like an tavern, judging by the signboard hanging next to the door and the warm light that shone from the windows. The Laughing Sisters, it read. "You might think your whole life is lying ahead of you and that you'll grow a fortune, marry the woman of your dreams, father violet-eyed rascals like you once were and live happily ever after, but there are no such things. Don't be like him—immortal, but a spectral being nonetheless. Take what you can whenever it is possible. Don't dream it away to brag with your individual prowess."

_Like William. He would find much use listening to this. But then again, he would dismiss it all as stories and an old sailor's rubbish._

"So if you would have been Tristan, sir," she said, noticing that the captain cringed slightly when she spoke of the "devil" by his name with such ease, "you would have decided to rule the world? A tyrant?"

"Much likely, lad, much likely," replied Pete but then shook his head. "But that's naught but a fool's thoughts. Let's get inside and dry our soggy bones before the rain heaves down again. I have an odd feeling that someone's listening to our every word."

Catherine's eyes immediately darted to the sailors walking a couple of respectful yards away from them, allowing them privacy, and many seemed battered and exhausted. She quickly found a reflection of her own suspicion in the brown eyes of John, but he was chatting casually with two of the crew members and did not seem too focused on eavesdropping his captain. Catherine let her gaze pass the crowd of thirty or so men and found an object of interest at a dock.

A brig smoothly slid to a halt, one of its gray sails ripped in half and dark marks of cannonballs in the hull. The vessel seemed to have been in the midst of battle before arriving at port and as Catherine gazed skyward towards the top of the mast, she saw the explanation; a white skull and a pair of crossed bones were painted on a dark sheet, the two contrasting colors flapping together in the wind with incomparable pride. The infamous black flag. The real terror of the sea.

"Bloody hell... When I thought this day could not get any better. Pirates."

John sarcastically voiced her exact thoughts, him having observed the ship shortly after her. A couple of sailors muttered their disapproval as well and in the corner of her eye, she saw captain Pete clenching his jaw as he turned around. He seemed utterly at dismay while scrutinizing the flag and sighed, pointing at it with clear distaste. "This is why I have sworn never to put a foot on his place, lad" he told her reluctantly. "Scoundrels like that furthermore ruins Nassau's already sullied reputation."

"But aren't there soldiers here, sir?" wondered Catherine and looked up at the fortress to their right. The English flags did not look nearly as frightening at all. "They are sworn protect us."

"They're awfully corrupted, lad," spat Pete, his eyes yet locked on the pirate ship. "Men, scurry along—John, fix some drinks in the bar and hot meals for everyone—while I'll stay with the youth here. He needs clarifications, it seems."

John hurried to obey and the others did not seem inclined to protest. They hurried inside while Pete stayed with her and continued to speak. She nodded a thanks as she had had absolutely no intention entering the tavern. The leather vest she had received from William concealed the sparse size of her chest enough to make them disappear while standing, but when seated, one could distinguish a bulge in the box-shaped material. She had never been thankful for having such a flat bosom, but she appreciated her very finite femininity now, or her disguise would never have succeeded fooling anyone. Although probably none would take any notice of her chest she was not going to risk anything, especially not when her shirt was soaked through and stuck to her body like a second skin.

"...and more so, they're scared death by the pirates that lurk here. Blackbeard, Hornigold, Rackham, Vane... even Kidd strikes fear in their puny hearts, though he cannot possibly be even a day over twenty, Adam."

Catherine did not recognize a single name but judging by the quaking fear in the captain's eyes and the deep respect resonating through his hoarse voice, she understood the danger the owners of the names provided. These were real people, real men of blood and flesh, and so she quickly came to share her companion's opinions: a feeling of dread mixed with adoration.

"They must be truly famous for sir to know of them," she murmured and turned back toward the ship. Men of different origins and sizes jumped onto the wharf, their waists embellished with heavy pistols and slim cutlasses. Dark tattoos covered almost every inch of their naked skin and where the ink had ceased in its tracks, scars took place. The men—pirates!—suddenly reminded her much like paintings: all of their history and personality were evident in their appearance. Catherine found each and everyone of them very interesting in their own way, but one of them caught her attention for a far longer time than any other.

He was tall, but did not seem taller than her, and walked with the confident gait of someone who could not care less about what people would think of him. The pirate moved with the same eerie grace as the boy in Havana—the one who had called her _demonio_—but where the youngster had been careful and gentle in his steps, this man was harsh, almost brutal, and awfully cocky. His blonde hair was a damper, dirtier shade of gold and ended just above his broad, muscular shoulders in wet, lanky ends. She could not clearly see his features but saw that he was grinning mischievously as he reached land, chuckling at something that was said.

Catherine's attention was immediately drawn to his clothes. He was dressed differently than the rest of the crew, wearing a simple white shirt with long, ruffled sleeves underneath thick, battered leather guards that covered the upper side of his arms. Some sort of vest made of the same tough, worn material protected his strong back, shoulders and torso all the way down to his waist where it ended in a wrap of dark, red fabric. Beneath the vest ran a long, buttoned, white and blue sleeveless jacket of discreet coloration that parted in two an inch underneath his sash and continued down to his calves into sharp points that then proceeded backwards in an ascending line. The more so of a coat rather than a jacket flowed freely at his sides and mirrored its frontal shape on the back as well, the material moving gleefully in rhythm with its wearer's steps, and surprisingly enough did not seem to hinder his movements at all. He wore a pair of soft, loose breeches and matching dark, knee-high boots in a nimbler leather than most other kind of boots. Slim leather belts hung low on his hips and were decorated with tiny, different pouches of contents unknown, and two flintlock pistols were tucked in on each of his sides, both paired with a slender creation of two dual-wielding swords. A thick strap stretched across his bulky chest and around his body and revealed another set of twin pistols, the number of guns now reaching up to a total of four. The weapons glimmered malignantly in the rays of the sun and furthermore added to the man's confident attitude; it was evident for any observer that the pirate knew how to wield his many armaments. Catherine hastily glanced down at her own short sword and gun and they faded in comparison as she finally realized what William had meant.

"Ah... I knew I forgot a name—I always do," murmured Pete bitterly as he took note of her staring. "There we have another renowned pirate bastard. Kenway."

As if he had heard him, the blonde man snapped his head towards them. Intensely glaring eyes regarded them thoroughly before he held up a hand and waved it, his gaze softening. "Old Pete!" he called. "Long time no see! Didn't know you were in business again. How's your back?"

The pirate's voice was amused and his accent oddly familiar. He was definitely not a Spaniard and not from the New World as William was, but much more likely from England. Perhaps he was another seeker of fortune as her father once had been, thought Catherine fleetingly as she quietly observed the exchange of words between the captain of the Lion's Pride and the approaching blonde figure.

"All good, thank you," replied Pete loudly, his sentence coated in honey-sweet sarcasm. "Funny as it might seem, but it was actually you who almost broke my back. But that's just facts, aye?"

The pirate closing in, Catherine realized that she had undervalued his height; he stood at least half a head above her and seemed to be about five years her senior. He had an impressive, square-shaped jaw, a broad, humpy nose—the shape crooked mid-way probably after a brawl too many—and his lips were thin but well-defined. His skin was tanned, rough and scarred, the marks granting him an even harsher look, but it also made him a lot more interesting in her opinion. He was yet too distant for her to distinguish the color of his eyes, but she had to admit that he was very good-looking, handsome even, in a strong and masculine way.

Catherine quickly tried to push the thought away. Beautiful in a way like William he was not, but surely he was more of a charmer than the nothing but infuriating American. He must have had an impressive number of conquests during the course of his life; she did not doubt it in the tiniest. Women always fell in love with fun, carefree men, charmed by the freedom in their manners. If but for a night, the women were finally released from their burdening hold and position in society. Still, they could endure it all. Catherine felt strangled by the very idea of such a life.

"Aye," agreed the other man as he reached them, forming the same mischievous grin as before. It was a pure promise, a definite guarantee of trouble. Catherine saw now that his eyes glittered in different shades of gray, blue and green. It was difficult to determine which color was the dominant one; they all blended in one and another. "At least I've allowed some breathing room as of late. Anything of value on your ship?"

They spoke politely to each other, bordering even to friendly, but there was no mistaken on Pete's dislike for the pirate. Catherine guessed that his feelings were the cause of a past happening, a personal grudge towards the blonde man, but knew better than to poke her nose into their business. She refrained from speaking and looked away in an effort to keep herself away from the pirate's attention, feeling the weight of his gaze passing her once and only briefly before turning back to Pete.

"Not at all," answered Pete truthfully. "You missed me by a hair, unfortunately. I'm presently on my way to Boston to collect some goods before faring off to the great motherland. This storm is currently putting me behind on schedule, though."

Catherine kept her eyes fixed on the ground and listened intently at their every word.

"Was wondering why you were here. So that's why. The storm."

"Aye, the storm."

"Still, I didn't think this was a place for you," said the pirate. "More correct: I thought you hated the place. Despised it utterly and completely."

"I had no choice," replied Pete reluctantly. "Me and my crew never decided on dying at sea. And the ocean seems unusually violent this time. I don't like it."

"Headed for the Sisters' then?"

"That's right."

"Well then, so am I."

"Blasted," muttered Pete. "Do you have to torment we wherever I'm headed? Can't you leave a man to his bloody work?"

"'Fraid this has nothing to do with plundering you again. I have my own purposes."

"Surely. Just leave me out of it for once."

"No problem."

Pete turned around and urged her in front of him. Catherine obeyed and they hurriedly headed towards the tavern, the blonde pirate following up shortly behind. She soon noticed that he moved soundlessly, compared to her and especially Pete's heavy steps, and his quietness remained even as they entered the ragged building. Thunder erupted, and lightning struck the sky.

"Are you hungry?" murmured Pete and gestured towards the bar. "Thirsty?"

Catherine shook her head and observed her surroundings. A large hearth was burning lively at the northern wall, emitting a comfortable, cosy light across the single room, and reflected on the long, almost fully occupied bar, a couple of robust pillars and a few tables with their mismatching chairs. The crowded bar table inhabited the whole eastern part of the tavern and what looked like two cupboards were standing behind it against the wall, next to a large barrel of water. An oil lantern hung on each pillar and further illuminated the inn in a lazy glow, granting the edifice a feeling of calm in the middle of the storm. A small staircase to her left led up to the second floor and that was where the pirate led his steps.

"Well then, I do feel in need of some refreshments. Stay inside and don't go anywhere; I'll round up the men as soon as the tempest has passed. Is everything understood?"

Catherine nodded. She followed the blonde man with her eyes, unable to look away. A pirate, she thought in admiration. A _real_ pirate.

Pete cleared his throat and she snapped back to reality. "Mayhap you oughta hear me out, lad. At least this once."

She gave him an apologetic look and awkwardly rubbed her arms together. "Sorry, sir. It's just that he's so—"

"—impressive? Awe-inspiring?" grunted Pete disappointedly. "He's nothing but bad news and danger. Some would even say psychopath if you'd believe 'em. Just stay stay away from that, lad. He's up to no good."

"But he's a pirate, is he not, sir?" asked Catherine in vexation. "Rather well-known if I am to trust you. How can he roam these waters, walk these streets and not be in chains?"

Pete sighed heavily. "He's a damned good fighter I must say, and he will stay free for as long as some ability is left in him. Like every other pirate out there. They fight with trice more spirit than any other man, probably because they live every day like it's their last. The soldiers fear them."

"'Live every day like it is their last'..." echoed Catherine thoughtfully. "Piracy sounds tempting."

Pete instantly seemed to regret what he had said but before he could correct himself, John called for him at the bar. The captain of the Lion's Pride sighed again and abided with a final warning before joining his crew.

"Don't lower yourself to their level, lad," he said and carefully patted her on her left shoulder. "Pirates are nothing but the scum of this earth. You'll regret many things in your life and blame yourself for your naïveté, but aiding someone who's sailing under the black flag will be your most fatal mistake. Heed my warning, Adam, and stay away from all of that."

Catherine nodded and mustered up her most honest expression, meeting Pete's worried eyes with her own. Her brain formed a lie that her mouth would soon say. Because as much as she had started to grow accustomed to Pete, her plan of escape was already set in motion. A furious fire burned in her heart and grew stronger by each passing day; she knew she would find no peace until matters were settled. She refused to return to London and let the assassination of her father remain a mystery. She was going to find the murderer and put things to right at all costs. There was no other choice, and she had never been more sure of a decision than this. A small whisper in the back of her mind told that she was being foolish and that she only wanted to meet William again, but Catherine did her best to ignore it and instead pursued a more sinister voice with a tone as smooth as silk.

_Use piracy for your own purposes. Find the killer and administer justice._

Inwardly she agreed with the voice, but Pete heard nothing more than a simple apology that he gladly accepted. He left her to unite with his fellow crew members and when Catherine thought he was busied enough with both alcohol and games, she sneaked upstairs in search for a certain blonde pirate.

Unbeknownst to her, she was being followed as well.

* * *

The reason why Mrs. Campbell couldn't sleep in a rather silent Boston was because she too had lied to Miss Catherine Porter.

It had been completely unintentional... or perhaps not. She was, after all, such a hopeless romantic and seeing Will carrying the unconscious black-haired woman through her door, both cold and fully soaked, had been like a scene from a book or a theater come true. Two youths meeting during dire circumstances only to fall in love and break every rule to stay together. Or well, that's what she was hoping this would elapse into. By lying to Ms. Porter that they were somewhat family, she had hoped to induce trust for Will in the girl and with time—affection.

Mrs. Campbell had always loved William like a son, but in reality they were not even relatives. He had simply shown up on her porch in Boston—her former home—a late evening about fifteen years ago, as a young, fragile, famished little boy with a beauty that not even the full moon could compete with, and begged her for some bread. She had quickly invited him to dine, then offered him new clothes and a bath and allowed him to sleep in a room for free. He had bedazzled her with his calm, serious manner for such a small child and after reaching an agreement with her much puzzled husband and her three curious daughters, he had been let to stay.

The first couple of weeks with the latest addition to the family passed in quiet and calm, with the yet unnamed boy doing barely nothing but investigate his new home. Mrs. Campbell let him be to Mr. Campbell's dismay—he suspected that their new family member was doing a heist—and as the results came that nothing was stolen, her husband came to trust the green-eyed boy as well. He told them that his name was William Reginald Meyers and that he was born in Boston, but when they tried to coax more answers out of him, he just shut himself down. Sometimes she had wondered if he wasn't really just a demon sent from Hell to infiltrate the world, but as thoughts like that passed, she also believed it could be possible that he was sent from the Lord almighty to test her strength and belief. Needless to say, she was also very religious as well as a hopeless romantic.

Mrs. Campbell had hoped to keep the beautiful boy a secret, but as more and more time passed, people came to notice the youth. Her neighbors asked who he was as well as her friends, and although she tried to avoid lying by just laughing their questions away, she soon realized that it was impossible to keep up as he matured. She produced the lie when he was in age to attend school and that was the same lie she had told Catherine Porter. It was the first time she had spoken it in Havana; she had hoped to avoid lying about Will by moving there. Really, everything she ever did was for Will.

As he grew up and became even more attractive, so grew his pride. There was nothing he valued higher than his honor and intelligence. He ignored the affection of countless of girls—her own daughters included—and even though the rumors that he was interested in men swirled in the air, he did nothing to prove the theories false. He did not have to. The women fell for him anyways and so then did the men. It was all rather inexplicable how he could stay so pure to his own thoughts and abstain from love; she would have bathed in it.

Until he saw Catherine Porter. There was something that changed in his demeanor whenever it regarded her. Perhaps was it not love he felt, perhaps it was only lust, but at least he condescended to speak and look at Ms. Porter. Mrs. Campbell felt a bit jealous that her own daughters had not been deemed worthy in his prejudicial eyes, but for his sake she was happier than ever and so she prayed innerly that he would win the Londoner's heart. She loved him dearly, more than anything, actually. And she would do anything for him. She would—

_People's thoughts are so easily accessible when asleep. Or well, even easier. You're all ridiculously simple to read no matter what you do. This... William. The officer. Is _he_ perhaps... __I better hurry. This might be awfully critical information. Anyways, thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Campbell. I'll see to it that you may rest peacefully from now on, but before that there's this one, final thing you have to do for me._

_Be my Hermes._


	9. Chapter 9: Rough Introduction

_A/N:_

_Quick question: should I commence with the ACIII during or after this story?_

_Thank you all for reading and supporting this story._

* * *

**Chapter 9:**  
_Rough Introduction_

William casually strode through the guarded metal doors, indifferent to the task at hand. He was to check if the murder of Mr. Porter had something to do with the Assassins or not. His instincts told it was, but his mind said no: there was absolutely no reason on to why they would have decided to kill a civilian. Rich he was—or had been—but so were many other men in this city. Why pick him?

The red-coated soldiers patrolling the inner courtyard of the mansion gave him curt bows of respect, but he graced them not even with a glance. Will was already in a bad mood, having to had washed his own clothes yesterday and manage his own meals due to the lack of servants. He wasn't lazy or poorly equipped for the tasks; he simply considered himself too important to waste time on such trivialities. Nevertheless, he had to admit that he was a rather decent cook.

Nearing the front entrance of the expensive building, a foul scent of decay filled the air. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and cursed inwardly at the newly appointed governor seated in Havana; he had liked Governor Torres so much more. A whole day had passed before he was admitted access to the case of Mr. Porter thanks to some foolish regulation rules, the bodies now rotting for the second day. The Grand Master was as enigmatic as ever often and avoided answering his questions about the governor, but since patience actually was one of William's many virtues, he didn't really mind it. Or well, the thought surfaced every now and then, but he trusted the master knew what he was doing. He had been right so many times already.

Will swiftly opened the doors and stepped inside, the now heavy odor of putrefaction instantly enveloping him. A not too unfamiliar sight was to be behold: a total of six unmoving bodies occupied the room, four of them guards, their bodies quickly decomposing in the hot day. He crouched down next to the soldier closest to him and investigated his wounds.

_One long, slim gash across his throat_, he pondered lightly and lifted the dead's chin to get a better view. Many a men would have refused or at least trembled when doing such an act but William was as calm and cool as ever. _Cut seems to have been done from left to right. He died almost instantly by probably the seemingly four bullet wounds in his chest area..._

Will looked about and noticed a large, open window two yards away from him, situated in an otherwise naked white wall northwestward. His eyes darted between the body and the window twice before putting together two and two. He rose to standing and decided to cross-check his theory by reacting the scene as he hastily approached the opening and jumped out through it.

_So the assailant dropped in from there_, he thought as he turned around and gazed in. The signs of the murdered lay splayed on the floor and against the walls. _He or she managed to get in_—Will entered the mansion again, ignoring the looks that were thrown at him from two soldiers guarding the innermost perimeter—_cut the man's throat with what seems like a dagger_—he unsheathed his sword and lashed it through the air—_and... I see. The person used his first victim as a shield, having the man take the bullets instead of him or her. Clever._

William looked at the other three guards and suddenly frowned. One lay crumbled on the floor with a slit throat as well but face smashed in, the second soldier was leaning against the wall with his own blade piercing through his abdomen and with a look of shock etched onto his sharp features, and the third one was lying face down slammed to the floor with a stab wound in his lower back. But what confused him was the fact that—

_They lie inexplicably far away from each other_, Will mused as he circulated the room, observing every detail around him until he found the logic reason why. He stopped in his tracks and exhaled. _So obvious. It would seem impossible for a single perpetrator to have done this. We're searching for what seems like two or a maximum of three Assassins. Yes, this does indeed seem like their doing: nobody else would make a job this elegant._

Satisfied with his conclusion, William decided to take a look at the fifth man amongst the passed, leaving the main character and probably the actual target of the Assassins for the last. It was a tall, lankily built man having worked as a butler judging by his clothes, or another high status servant of some, and he was lying on the remnants of what would seem to have been a table on the floor. His cause of death was a strangely enough a shot through the head. Nobody else had been murdered that way. William got the idea that he might had been an Assassin working undercover to then die in the fight, but shrugged of the theory when he saw that man was clenching a flintlock pistol. And the weapon had been fired.

_Odd_, William thought as he kneeled next to the body. _The first soldier did have four bullet wounds and it does makes a match when thinking about the three other fools who in panic killed their own comrade together with a fourth idiot... But he's not facing the soldier. So where did this bullet go?_

Will glanced over his shoulder and checked the walls for if the butler had miscalculated his shot and sent it on its merry way into the wood or in a furniture, but there were no holes to be found. There was of course a small chance that the man had shot through a window, but Will eliminated the option as he saw that all windows were locked and intact, and nobody had been sent to investigate the scene beforehand to then possibly close the windows. William fleetingly acknowledged the fact that the Assassins must have escaped another way than they way they arrived, but that still did not answer his main question: to where had the fifth bullet disappeared? Or rather, what or whom had it hit?

He sighed. There were no other clues to the answers he needed and quickly presumed that the butler must have been shot and knocked out on a table for an important reason, before moving on to the last body. Mr. Porter's.

Catherine's father.

William lowered himself to take a closer look at the man. After a swift survey, he came to the conclusion that the two family members shared absolutely no resemblance whatsoever. That, or because the stench from the dead was starting to make his memory fail. But he truly doubted that. Catherine had black hair whence her father had blonde, and she had a completely different shape of her nose and eyes than Mr. Porter. But at some parts they were slightly alike, Will soon admitted. They shared a similar bone structure and their mouths were the same. There was also something about their chin and ears that revealed a certain family trait. He was tempted to lift the dead man's eyelids only to see if he had the eyes of his daughter until he decided not to in respect for Catherine.

_This can impossibly be a mere coincidence_, Will thought as he exited the scene. He unbuttoned his jacket and took off his hat, lazily raking through his hair with his long fingers. _Two days after Mr. Porter dies, they launch an attempt to abduct his daughter. Worse is, they seem to have known where Catherine would be in time for all this, so therefore they planted an Assassin at the inn. But how were they able to foresee it? And what do they want with her?_

He walked out through the metal gates and quickly headed towards the Templar's headquarters in Havana for report. Perhaps the Grand Master would bring some enlightenment to his thoughts.

* * *

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't find it anywhere."

Mary groaned in fierce annoyance and craned her neck backwards until her head hit the wall. She was sitting straight up in the only bed in the room and furiously pulling at the hem of her shirt where the chain of her necklace usually could be felt. Fever was still invading her system, constantly keeping her frustrated, and the dire news that Edward had failed to retrieve her precious locket was hardly subduing the increasingly feeling of hopelessness. Without the item, she felt lost.

"I need it, Kenway," she lamented and sluggishly pulled back her brown hair. Her bandana was lying on the floor along with her boots and belt, but she was still armed, both with her Hidden Blades as well as a medium-sized cutlass and a pair of flintlock pistols. "This is all because of you. If you hadn't been so fucking imprudent and rushed in, we would have—"

"—waited a whole 'nother day for that deliverance of sugar to finally come rolling in," Edward said as he crossed his arms. He was casually leaning against a wall, a wicked half-smile playing on his lips. Mary had always both loathed and admired his confidence. "That stupid old man would have escaped by then. I don't know how many bloody times he's gotten away from us and this time, we finally managed to kill him. Don't know what you preferably call things like this, but I consider the mission a great success for you and your monks."

_They're not my monks._ "Whatever," Mary replied bitterly. "As soon as this storm passes, I'll be off to Havana no matter what—"

A series of coughing ripped through her lungs, tearing at her already sore throat. She vaguely noticed that Edward rushed to her side and he grabbed her by the shoulders, helping her to lean forward and clear her throat. His warm hand brushed aside her hair from her face as she haggardly returned to breathing normally, tears dangerously close to filling her eyes.

"Should learn you a thing or two. Your body is clearly refusing to obey you."

"Thanks for the obvious statement," she murmured sarcastically and pushed him away. She didn't want to pass over whatever sickness she had gotten to him. "I'm—I'm fine. Really," she added hoarsely as he raised an eyebrow.

Edward seemed inclined to disagree, but something in her expression must have made him change his mind because he decided to leave it be. He swiftly got to his feet and went towards the door. "I'll bring you something to eat and drink." He raised a dismissive hand as she opened her mouth to protest and shook his head. "Not a word. Stay right there. _Mary_."

Dumbfounded, she wasn't even aware of her jaw going slack. _Where could I possibly want to go_, she thought with a heart-aching realization, _when you're here?_

* * *

The second floor consisted of eight closed doors, paired four and four facing each other down a long hallway to Catherine's left as she finished ascending. The corridor was dimly lit with only two lanterns and a smell of dirt filled her nostrils to her disgust. She suddenly regretted her hasty decision to follow the pirate upstairs; how was she going to find him?

With a disappointed sigh she decided to head back downstairs when someone suddenly opened the door closest to her. "Speak of the devil and he doth appear"; the pirate quietly exited the room, murmuring something she was unable to catch, and his eyes quickly locked on her as he shut the door close behind him. He did not seem in the mood as he brusquely inquired: "What are you doing simply standing there?"

Embarrassed, Catherine quickly straightened and tried to behave as if she belonged, nodding curtly toward him. Something creaked behind her and a loud roar of laughter resonated from the lower floor. "I was just heading down, sir," she replied stiffly. She was horrible at lying. "I'm afraid I must have mistaken you for a friend of mine."

"Aye, you must have." His gaze swept over her and a spark of recognizance lighted up his eyes. "You're one of Pete's lads? Didn't think he'd settle down with a wife ever. Lemme take a closer look at you."

Catherine thought that his request sounded rather strange and frowned. "Why?" she wondered as she awkwardly approached him. Anxiousness crept into her voice and made it tremble. "I don't believe we've possibly met. And I must rejoin with the crew before they worry I've gone away."

"Although I cannot seem to agree more, your friend seems to have followed _you_ instead of the other way around."

Moving quicker, more rapid than anyone could ever possibly move, the pirate lunged at her and grabbed her by the arm. He twisted her around, almost dislocating her shoulder in the process, and forcefully slammed her against the wall. Catherine felt the world go black for a moment as the left side of her face hit the hard wood and she immediately slumped down to the floor. It all happened too fast for her to even whimper, but her disoriented mind was able to comprehend other sounds.

"Who are you?" demanded the pirate to know, his voice angry and cold and away from her. "What business do you have here?"

_So he's talking to someone else_, she noted. _Whom?_

A strangled noise responded and even though Catherine wanted to turn her face sideways and look at the exchange of words, she was already having a hard time staying conscious. It felt like her head was on fire and so did her left shoulder blade. The rest of her body was too heavy to move; it felt like she was bound with invisible weights to the ground. She wanted to cry out of the pain but she was simply too numb to even open her mouth, her eyes staring dumbly into the roof.

"Speak out, damn it!" hissed the pirate.

"We're... to—to retrieve her."

"Why?"

A low chuckle was heard. Catherine's as amazed by the person's endurance. He sounded to be in twice as much pain as her, but he still managed to be amused. "Not—not tellin' ya..."

She heard a grunt and then there was nothing more said. Something heavy was being dragged across the floor and then a door opened and closed. Catherine could feel her heart picking up its pace as her thoughts swirled. The stranger had undoubtably been killed, she presumed, and so now came the question what would happen to her. She fervently regretted her choice to follow the pirate and it was not until now she realized what foolishness it was. What had she accomplished? Nothing but the death of another man. What had she hoped to accomplish? She had not thought anything through. She was growing impatient and stupid.

"I know you're alive, kid. You're breathing."

A damp-blonde head entered her blurry view. Catherine blinked and tried to formulate an answer when another door opened. A young male voice spoke, the tone harsh and rough like a blunt-edged sword and with a flourishing thick, British accent. "What the bloody hell is going on out here? When you said you'd fix me something to eat, I thought you meant ordinary food. Not a damn boy."

"You're misinterpreting the very obvious here. This isn't just some random fool who hangs around here; I caught him with a templar."

A templar. To Catherine, the word sounded so definite in the way the pirate said it, like it was a title or a profession. But she had never heard the word in such a context. _I caught him with a templar. A templar or a Templar? _She tried to ask but the words eluded her senses and her mouth opened to quickly close.

"Don't feign innocence, kid. Just tell me what you were doing here."

Someone snorted. "Damn you Kenway, you knocked the living guts out of the boy. Look at him; he's completely delirious. Perhaps he needs a moment to return to reality."

"I don't have a moment," replied the pirate. "Remember that about your locket? Didn't have neither patience nor time."

_Locket? Did I hear that right? _

"And look what happened you numbskull. I lost it only because of you!" the other male exclaimed. "Now since this went straight to horseshit anyways, my tactics won't help, but let's do this my way for once. Get him inside."

"Stupid, stupider, stupidest..."

"Edward."

_Edward. The pirate's name is Edward_

"Right, right. You win this time, kid."

* * *

William immediately noticed when he was being followed. As he glanced backwards through the crowded marketplace he saw nobody, but he could still feel a pair of eyes observing his every movement. People pushed past him as he stood still and one of them slipped a small letter into his palm. Recognizing the process, he relaxed and casually continued towards his goal. When he finally got out of the mass, he led his steps into a rather empty alley and unfurled the tiny note, quickly scanning the coded information within. A shadow passed his face as he reread the letter. Again. And again. And yet another time. Had he been more weak-hearted than himself, he would have crumbled to the ground crying. Had he been more aggressive than himself, he would've slammed his fist into a wall. But as he was who he was, he coolly recollected himself and resumed his walking. Passing a blacksmith on the way, he flung the sheet of paper into the oven and hastily observed the burning embers almost immediately swallowing the note before he went on and reached his final destination. Will allowed himself to whisper a short prayer, knowing that he wouldn't have the time to arrange a proper ceremony and that she deserved an exception to his atheistic mindset, before knocking on the familiar door. The hatch opened and he was let in after murmuring the password. His thoughts lingered only a brief moment longer on the contents of the letter before he swallowed any emotions that might have surfaced on his otherwise impasse face and entered the building. A new plan was forming in his mind as he calculated his current situation. Satisfied with the outcome of his theory, he decided to forget the pain in his heart and focus on reporting the mission as accurately as he could. Nonetheless, the words were still nagging on the back of his mind, constant but only faintly, like an ache or an itch.

_Mr and Mrs. Campbell were found dead at midday.  
Cause of death still unknown, but a message  
was found in the latter's hand in English:  
"I'm back for what is mine."_


End file.
